


The Morgenstern's Kingdom

by jigglyjelly28



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Brainwashing, F/M, Family, Imprisonment, Incest, M/M, Morgencest, Not fully canon but has canon parts, Pseudo-Incest, Rating May Change, Rebellion Groups, Rebels, Stockholm Syndrome, The Dark War, Torture, Warnings May Change, Wyverns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 91,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jigglyjelly28/pseuds/jigglyjelly28
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beyond the flaming hills and the pillaged city of Idris, rises a new, self-proclaimed king with his demons and the traitors to the last remaining Shadowhunters. Few remain in their home country; others, from Institutes across the globe, join the last Idris-based warriors to overthrow the Morgenstern King and his new heirs. Mature for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

_"If the king is pious, the subjects become so; but if the king is vicious, the subjects become the same."_

* * *

"Master, he says he wants to see you," the soldier rasped. The other knights laughed and cheered, filling the Great Hall with a cacophony of noise.

It was sweet music to his ears.

"So he's ready to play? Bring him in then - and make sure he's appropriately dressed," the king said, winking.

The laughter increased and the king stalked back to his throne to await his prisoner's arrival.

* * *

It had roughly been half an hour later when his solider returned with the prisoner in tow and the king could see why. He was naked, as he had requested, and covered in fresh and festered wounds, which only served to rally up his court's bloodlust as he was dragged down the aisle. They spat, shrieked and clawed at him as he moved in between them, laughing even harder when he winced. Yet, they would not touch him - and that made the king even happier.

They knew that this was his kill.

"Brother," the king said silkily. "I hear you're ready to talk."

"We're not brothers," he spat weakly. Weak from his new wounds, his infected ones, the endless sleepless nights, or his defeated hope - the king did not know. However, the king also did not care.

He chuckled and stood up from his throne. His purple cloak fluttered behind him as he descended the short steps to where his dying brother lay. "What _are_ brothers, brother?" He asked rhetorically. "Are they not males raised by the same parent?" His expression turned furious at his brother's lack of response. "I never said we were _blood_ brothers. We are only brothers in spirit, by name and by our _father_."

There was still no response from the boy, and the king had had enough. He knew - they all knew - the prisoner wasn't dead yet, and defiance to the king by not answering his polite questions was intolerable. He looked to the guard who delivered a sharp kick to his ribs. The boy groaned but didn't look up. The king didn't need to give any indication to his guards to tell them what comes next.

His matted hair was yanked back and he was forced to look at his new king. "You said you wanted to talk, Herondale, so let's talk. Where is my sister hiding?"

"I'm _not_ a Herondale-"

"It just so happens that I don't care what your name is. Herondale, Lightwood, Wayland - _Morgenstern_ \- what does it matter? You're the last of your line either way. What I care about is bringing my sister home and giving her a life free of hiding."

There was no reply from him. The king growled.

"I'm not against having you possessed, brother, if it means I get what I want. Tell me where my sister is, and I'll welcome you into my court, where your wounds will be treated. _When_ my sister comes home, I'll even allow you both to be married as long as you take the Morgenstern name - because the line _will_ continue." He paused contemplatively and stared at his brother's feverish face. He then said more quietly, "Through me or through you, the Morgenstern line will continue."

The prisoner used his strength to spit by the king's feet. "I'd rather die," he said hoarsely.

The king could see that no matter whether he believed it or not, it was difficult for him to make these sorts of promises. He knew that his brother had considered the possibility of how else the Morgenstern line will continue, if not – apparently - through him.

"I'd rather die than be trapped in a court run by a monster, and followed by demons. I would rather die, and make sure you never know where Clary is, than to be married to her, trapped inside this... _hell-on-Earth_."

"Clarissa _belongs_ with her family!" He abruptly shouted, unable to bear the thought of her being anywhere else.

Promising her to this weakling in front of him had already crossed a line in his conscience, never mind her being possibly dead, without his knowledge – or living any longer without him to protect her, as he should've done ever since she was born. _She was supposed to be with him._

He backhanded the prisoner across the face in a fit of rage. He composed himself quickly. " _Fine_. Alistair, possess him. Find out if she really is where the scouts said."

The king strutted back to his throne and languidly settled on it, with the air of someone who had already won.

Alistair stepped forward onto the dais, and his own mob of guards seized the king's brother. They held his head up, exposing his neck, and placed him firmly on his own two feet. Such was the position and state of the prisoner, he gasped for air; black, sticky fingers quickly found their way into his mouth and held it open. His energy was depleted so much that there was barely a fight of resistance.

Alistair's ethereal body floated into the prisoner (once he was close to unconsciousness, when there'd be the least resistance), in a body of black smoke. He travelled down his throat from his mouth, through his ears and nostrils - anywhere on his naked body that had an opening. The body jerked slightly at the new sensation, then stilled, then pulled itself upright of its own accord. The possession was complete.

The king smirked as he watched his newly possessed brother run his hands all over his body, exploring his new form. More blood and puss oozed from the wounds as he moved, but there was no registration of pain. Both curiously and disgustedly, Alistair stroked the prisoner's penis, and then grasped it roughly. He pumped it a few times, enjoying the feel of this man's body and the sensation. The penis twitched in his hold; the court and he jeered, while some others leered crudely at the man's body.

The king watched those leering in an equally lustful manner, and noted who they were within his court. _Maybe I'll start dishing out rewards,_ he thought; but he didn't know which side he'd be rewarding – the demons or his brother. He looked over his brother once more, lingering on his semi-erect penis. "I'll ask you one more time, _brother_." The court laughed. " _Where is my sister?_ "

"She's...she's hiding. With the other rebel forces," he replied, his voice as strong as ever. "Clary is under close watch; we know that you have demons looking for her, to bring her to you. She knows the offers that you'll make to have her, and they all know that she will accept them."

"Yes, yes," the king said exasperatedly. "But _where_ \- where is she hiding?"

"Only her guards knew. There have been some rumours that she escaped her guards and is making her way to your palace, to accept your offers."

The king contemplated what had been said. "I want the scouts tripled," he said lustfully. "I want the vanguard assembled. We are going to increase our searches across the countryside; we are going to murder, burn, possess and rape any and all villages in our wake. Whatever drives her faster to us. We will leave destruction in our wake, caused only by the foolishness of the Shadowhunters that have defied my rule."

He stood up suddenly and gazed around at his cheering court. They loved him. And they would love his sister too. They were Morgensterns; they were warriors; as beautiful and fierce as Lucifer, where their namesake had originated.

Who was better to rule over demons than a Morgenstern?

"We will find her," he muttered crazily to himself. "She will come home."

 _Home?_ He thought suddenly. _Home. Am I home?_ He looked around pensively. He was indeed home; his old home, before his mother had abandoned him. Morgenstern Manor. It wasn't really his home, he knew, but it was the home of the Morgensterns and that is where he and his sister should be. He didn't think there was any other example of being home.

The king nodded and Alistair fled the body, going back into his own corporeal form in the same black smoke. The prisoner fell back to his knees, crying out in pain and the repulsion he felt for informing the king of Clary's whereabouts, as well as the unwanted fondling from the demon that'd possessed him.

"Thank you, brother," the king said jovially, pleased with his new information. He stood up from his throne and commanded quiet from his followers. "For his valuable information and as proof of my generosity, I would like to welcome my brother, Jonathan Herondale, into my court. He will be treated for all wounds, and, once healed; he will be given freedom privileges around the court. He will be treated with respect, as the next in line."

They stared at their new prince, silent for a few moments. This, in front of them, was a boy with no demon blood within him - only the blood of angels. Yet, they knew that this Angel Boy was also Valentine's son, and would've been raised in the same manner as their current king - they knew themselves that it wasn't hard to revert back to previous lifestyles. They knew and trusted that their king would train his successor to follow in his footsteps.

All of a sudden, there was a flood of noise that washed over everyone.

The king was pleased.


	2. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not long after Jace finally told the king where his sister, Clarissa, was hiding, she arrives at his court and is welcomed in as his family once more. However, there are some rules that she must understand if she is to live a pleasant life there as his next in line.

* * *

_"All kings are foes of all the men they rule."  
_

* * *

It had scarcely been more than a month before the king's sister arrived, untouched by his guards and scouts, as he had ordered, at the palace gates.

At the news of her arrival, he called together his court, despite it being in the early hours of the morning. He bade his medics to collect Jonathan from his room, and to dress him in some of his own less expensive finery; he was still feverish from some of the festered wounds that had yet to heal, but fine clothes could distract from that. Besides, they had to look nice for Clarissa's homecoming.

He, in fact, was so excited to see her again that he sent an order to his brother to go see her first, and make sure she knew how to act. He didn't want to have her possessed as well.

He also sent Jonathan with some expensive finery for her to change into, knowing that her clothes must have been covered in sweat, blood and dirt - and possibly torn - by now. He made sure to demand that the demon delivering his messages knew that under no circumstances was he to give his brother - to deliver to Clarissa - one of their mother's dresses.

She was not their mother. Their mother was a Fairchild; his sister was a Morgenstern.

"Your majesty," his sister said through gritted teeth. She was kneeling on the steps before him, head bent stiffly in submission. There were no guards flanking her as there had been with his brother, when he had first arrived. "King Jonathon."

The king smiled salaciously at her, though she couldn't see; his brother, on the other hand, who was standing to the left of his throne could, as well as his court.

His court was unusually quiet ever since she strutted in the hall, dressed in the robes he had given her; it remained so, even as the king reached over to his brother and gripped his upper thigh. His brother looked down at him disgustedly, but after a few months in his court, the king was more than satisfied that he had understood and accepted how it worked.

He had understood and learned enough to tell his love how act before him. Like a trained puppy.

Clarissa still couldn't see what was happening as the king caressed his brothers leg once, twice, three times, before taking it away. "Sister," King Jonathon said, rising from his throne. "I see you've made it home in one piece."

"This is _not_ my home and I am ashamed to have _you_ -" She spat suddenly, her head still bent towards the floor.

The king grinned wickedly, but he wasn't the one to interrupt her. Nor was it one of the demons in his court.

"Clary," his brother hissed. " _Stop_."

Clary's head shot up to glare at the only person who she thought would be on her side, in this monstrous place. "Traitor," she growled under her breath, staring straight at him.

Next to him, his brother went stiff. The grip he had on his seraph blade tightened.

"My, my, Sister, you have quite the mouth on you," he said teasingly. Her head shot back down at his voice to stare at the floor, cautiously watching the demons either side of her. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Clarissa, do stand up and look your family in the eyes. Let me see how life on the run has treated you."

Slowly, as if the demons surrounding her would attack her at the slightest move, she stood. The dress that he had given her pooled around her feet and hugged her figure nicely; Jonathon was impressed. He had thought that she would've been skinnier and more raggedy after all her time spent hiding - but her hair didn't look half as matted or dirty as he would've expected and the dress didn't look overly baggy.

She looked wonderful and royal; a perfect addition to his court, and the perfect person to be standing next to him for the years to come.

"You look incredible, dear sister." He smirked smugly. "You'll have to tell me, Clarissa, as I was never truly your brother – were you ever taught the poem for the Shadowhunter's colours? Do you know why we're wearing these colours today?"

"No," she said shortly. "It wasn't necessary to my training."

"Oh yes, your _'_ _training_ _'_. We'll have to see how thorough your training has been after you've settled in here; our brother here could tell you several things that he's been re-taught that's actually improved his fighting skills. Institute training is nothing compared to family tactics that have been passed down..." He said aloofly, satisfied with himself and secure in the knowledge that he did not even need to lie in front of his family. If he kept his lying to a minimum in the beginning, then when he would have to start creating excuses and lying to one another, they wouldn't be as suspicious.

Just as the king had expected, Jonathan bent his head slightly in embarrassment.

"In any case, Sister, the blue on our robes is for the return of the lost, which just so happens to be you. I do suppose, however, that the actual line from the ode says "blue banners when the lost return" – but we were unprepared for a procession." He gestured widely across the sea of demons around her, including the entire length of the building in which they were standing. "Welcome home, Clarissa."

She bit her tongue and glared hard at her brother. She would've spoken out against him once more, about where her true home was and how she feels only shame at the thought of him being descended from the same bloodline as her, but she didn't want to relive the feeling of betrayal that she had had when Jace had quietened her.

Alternatively, "our brother", as he seemed to be going by these days. Clary couldn't help but feel disgust at the thought of him allowing Jonathon to call him that name, and obediently standing there next to him, looking like a loyal personal guard.

She didn't understand what he was playing at.

Unless her brother had actually managed to persuade him into trusting him, as had her father had once. It didn't seem surprising in that thought; her brother had once convinced her that he wasn't completely psychotic whilst they were travelling around together - with a possessed Jace – and her brother, obviously, had inherited the same charm their father had. What she couldn't – wouldn't –believe, was that Jace had been naive enough to be genuinely tricked into it.

She pointed at yellow-ish coloured flowers that trailed up the hem of her dress. "And what about this? What is this colour representing?"

His dark eyes glittered. "Oh, _that,"_ he said gleefully.

For a moment, Clary had thought he was going to mock her for being stupid, because there were no plain blue dresses for her to wear to her own apparent 'homecoming', but now it seemed to be about something that he was incredibly proud of. She could see that even Jace, who she assumed had become used to the ways of Jonathon's demon court, tried not to look at her, already knowing the answer.

She shuddered to think of what it could be.

"That colour, dear, is saffron. It represents the victory march," he proudly stated. She was sickened to see his eyes briefly flick in the direction of Jace. "Of course, there are technicalities with the phrasing of that too, but alas, this isn't an event to be pedantic about."

The demons around her had suddenly burst to life, cawing and hissing in what she assumed to be the equivalent of cheering. Some were becoming unnervingly close to her, causing her to feel especially vulnerable, as she was in a dress and free of any weapons; to make matters worse, she was severely outnumbered. She couldn't even count on Jace helping her out of the disaster anymore - not until she had a chance to speak with him.

"Victory?" She quickly said, hoping that if she kept talking with her brother, his attention could remain focused on what was happening around her. She hoped that she could at least count on his protection; it would've been pointless if he let her die now. "What victory? You haven't won anything. Shadowhunters won't listen to you-!"

"Clary, _please_ ," Jace said for the second time. He looked pained to do it, but she had caught him looking to Jonathon for instruction in the moments before.

"I would hate to imprison you, dear sister, so soon after you returned home," the king said, deathly low. "I'd watch what you say to your new king."

She was only fuelled on by Jace's betrayal.

"Shadowhunters don't _have_ kings! Who decided _you_ were righteous enough to rule over the rest of us? You're a _demon!_ A hybrid of the things we _kill_ and the shittiest-"

Jonathon was standing now, his arm thrown in front of Jace, as if to block him from running down the few steps to where Clary was. His grin was devilish as the demons surrounding her knocked her to the floor and evaded her attempts at attacking them, accidentally ripping her dress in their frenzy. She was quickly quietened and restrained, but Jonathon could hardly say that during the restraint, most injuries inflicted upon her were necessary – not that he was going to say anything against it, of course.

He was the king, after all, and he could not – _would not_ – be anything less than impartial to his sister.

"Kings, Clarissa, do not wait for the approval of lesser people to come into their kingdom. _They take it_ ," he lustfully proclaimed, looking down at her kneeling on the stairs. "That, baby sister, is why we have wars in the first place." He cocked his head to the side, smiling mockingly. "Maybe you'll actually learn something in training."

"Jonathon," Jace hissed next to him, looking at Clary's struggling body on the floor. "She's hurt."

And she was. Blood was oozing from multiple wounds in her legs and there was a particularly dark patch of blood on the side of her dress; still, if there was considerable pain, she definitely didn't show it, they way that she was continuously wriggling about.

The king screwed up his face, looking considerably boyish. "If you are going to be a part of this court, Sister – and you will – you have certain things to learn," he said. He walked down his few steps and knelt in front of Clary, grasping her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him. "First and foremost: I am your king; but I am also your brother, and you, as for now, are my heir. I deserve to be treated with the appropriate respect that befits my position above you, and I will give you the same."

"Bullshit," she spat through her squashed lips.

He tightened his hold on her face. "If you don't believe me, then you can ask your precious Golden Boy. He learnt the rules quickly, dear, and he was left alone with no restrictions to his freedom in place. Now, you will also re-start your training with Golden Boy, with me as your teacher; and when I require and request you, you will stay with me until you are dismissed. My demon comrades shall be left alone and untouched – if one attacks you, you will bring the matter up with me, _as your king_ , rather than dismantling it by yourself."

"Anything else, dear _brother?"_ She asked sarcastically.

"Don't make me take away your freedom of speech," he said quietly. "Anything else that's worth learning, you'll learn yourself soon enough. I won't immediately begin interrogating you about where your other fellow vigilantes are hiding, but you better not let your mouth get you into something your ass can't handle, otherwise you might find their hiding spots aren't as undetectable as you might imagine, with Hell-Hounds on your side." He roughly let go of her face and walked back towards his throne. He stood there for a moment, watching his little sister struggle in their hands, before turning around and ordering Jace to follow him out of the chamber to continue his training.

"Clean her up and send her to me when you're done. I want her ready for training," the king called as he left the room.


	3. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Jonathon takes Clarissa to the training room with Jonathan, and lays down his plans for the three of them now that they're finally all together. They all make their own promises to each other or some higher being - perhaps The Angel himself will hear them.

_"The foremost art of kings is the ability to endure hatred."_

* * *

The breath was knocked out of her the moment she hit the floor, and she struggled to pull herself back up and continue fighting. What wounded her pride even more was the fact that this was not the first time she had been floored.

The first, which was arguably an unfair 'flooring' as she hadn't been ready for any kind of assault, was when she had refused to play her brother's game of "training" on the basis that it would be fruitless for as long as she stayed in his 'palace'.

He had an army - she didn't even have Jace.

It was her brother, of course, who had lazily feigned a punch to her face and then knocked her legs out from under her whilst she was distracted. He had laughed heartily; though, to her rising ire, not unkindly. It was as if she was a funny Shadowhunter child who was trying to be her mother or father in the battlefield.

She supposed, grudgingly, that she was.

After, he had helped her up from the floor and asked her to - or more like told her - to reconsider denying receiving training, he called over Jace to the centre of the training room to demonstrate further his point of it being useful. In the manner of a loyal friend, Jace silently walked over to his brother, who was selecting throwing knives from a nearby rack, and assessed the wooden targets on the wall, then the Shadowhunter-esque mannequins partially obscuring them.

"Dear Sister, do you remember when you were training with Jonathan in the New York Institute not so long ago, that he could hardly hit several consecutive targets on an object?"

There was a pause as she recalled it. "Yes," she said slowly, looking towards the boy in question for reassurance. She thought she saw a long-forgotten smirk on his lips.

"Of course you do. You see, Jonathan's strength was in physical combat - not in aiming at targets," he said seriously, as if he was now the instructor of his own combat school. "Unsurprisingly, he did not use a bow or throwing knives when in battle. However, after I gave our brother a few family tips on hitting far away targets, it was evident that despite your apparent love for the Institute, you needed the type of training that no one there could provide." He tossed four knives to Jace, who caught them effortlessly. Jonathon then took a stance in between Jace and Clary, half facing the targets in front of him, and halfway turned to continue informing Clary. "We are Morgensterns. You and I, Sister, we have Morgenstern blood - we would've taken to our family's training like a duck to water, if we had been raised differently, together. Yet, me and Jonathan have had snippets of Morgenstern training in our childhood, which would've been easily forgotten when we were abandoned; but it's also easily remembered."

As if this demonstration had been planned, Jace threw two knives from his right hand, two from his left, and did an elaborate spin before releasing the fifth. Each of them stuck in the inner ring - the bulls-eye of the target with deadly precision and aim.

Clary was amazed. Amazed at how Jonathon trusted Jace enough to equip him with knives and show him how to kill a long-distance target; amazed at how Jace accepted and improved drastically through this 'training' that her (their?) brother was supplying. Yet, she was both amazed and disappointed that Jace had upheld the trust and respect between the both of them, and hadn't thrown a knife straight for his heart.

"How?" Clary breathed. She didn't believe that her brother had welcomed Jace into his palace with open arms, and equipped him with weapons without gaining his trust. Surely, that must have taken a few weeks; Jace would've fought in his rule, wouldn't he? His aim and precision couldn't have improved that suddenly; he hadn't been captured for long, had he?

"Jonathon - our brother," Jace corrected, eyeing him out the corner of his eye as their brother fiddled with the knives in his hands. "He showed me a trick. He'd watched me train for a few days, and one day, he came up to me and said that there was nothing wrong with my technique - but that I didn't follow my shot through. He told me that fear binds a killer to its prey, and the knife that I'm throwing - or the arrow I'm releasing - connects us both as if by a silver cord. I am my weapon. There is no distance between me and the weapon."

" How...poetic," she sneered in the direction of her brother. She turned back towards Jace. Dubiously she asked, "And it worked, just like that?"

She still remembered the trouble he went through occasionally at the Institute, trying to perfect his aim, so that he could be an all-rounded killer. Alec, who was as good a shot as any Shadowhunter she had ever met, couldn't even minutely improve his precision.

"Just like that," Jace confirmed.

"You see, Sister? I don't wish to punish or hurt you. I only wish to teach you - as I am with Jonathan – the more effective styles of combat and techniques, as well as furthering your basic knowledge on Shadowhunter history. Especially since now, the three of us will be making it." He smiled excitably. "That's all your training is."

"Yes, but _why_? What is the purpose of this 'training'? What are you training us _for_?" Clary stressed, hating that she had no choice but to accept.

"For your friends, Clarissa," he replied patiently. He twirled one of his own three knives in his hand, fingering the tip of it. "When they do arrive, you will need to fight with my army for your lives - as will I, as will my demons. Your friends, Clarissa - how do I put it? While my army is still purging the land, so that I may start my kingship with a country that has been rid of the poisoned and poisoning individuals, you and Golden Boy have safe refuge in my palace. When they tear down my gates, they will only be thinking about how you left them out there, in their burning city, whilst you lived a life of luxury with your "evil" brother. They know that the two of you are here, and they know I'm not dead yet."

He turned around so that he completely faced the targets now, but he continued speaking. "There are three of us, the last Morgensterns. We have only each other; I know you don't believe me, Clary, but I don't need either of you dead - or at all - I want the both of you here." He threw the first knife all of a sudden, causing Clary to flinch; it spiralled in the air and struck the Shadowhunter mannequin in the head. "The two of you are going to help me by giving ideas and advice on what to do with our new kingdom. If all else fails and it is only one of us at the end, then, as my heirs, you will inherit this kingdom and rule it as you wish - which is why you will participate in training. So that, when the time comes, you'll be ready. But until you two- _the meek_ \- inherit the earth, it belongs to me and I will rule as I see fit."

He threw the next knife a second after he finished his sentence, and it landed in the mannequin's gut. "I don't want to torture either of you, but if you forget your place and the rules then I may see no other choice. However, I still see no reason to kill you if that should happen - I would only be ridding the Morgenstern line and myself of heirs. You see, Clarissa, we are the last of our line - and Jonathan, similarly, is the last of the Herondales. Quite the dilemma, isn't it?"

"Quite," she echoed hollowly, already knowing where his train of thought was going.

"With our respective fathers dead, I see no other way it could possibly continue without us." He ran the pad of his thumb up the last knife's blade, pressing hard enough to tear skin. A bead of blood, which Clary was mildly surprised to see was black, ran down the steel. "If we follow our father's original plans, then it should be you, Clarissa, and Jonathan to continue the Morgenstern line - and create a new, stronger breed of Shadowhunters. That, coincidentally, would also serve to make sure that the royal family - us - are superior to the others. Nevertheless, after collecting father's studies from his safe, I was able to further discover that you and I, dear sister, would have also been used to create a new Shadowhunter species."

"You're lying," Clary seethed. Her anger suddenly spiked as she realised what he had been insinuating. Their father was a sadistic bastard, a liar, and almost as psychotic as his son (his son, evidently, was the craziest) - but Clary was willing to bet that he would never have condoned or encouraged incestuous behaviour between his two children, even to complete his goals. "Valentine did not experiment on his children so that they could-"

Clary could hardly bear to finish her sentence.

"Our father, Clarissa, was a scientist in his own right. One of his investigations was behind finding ways to breed Shadowhunters and demons together, so that he could combine their more useful traits. However, it was already known that sexual activities between demons and Shadowhunters can cause particular diseases, such as Demon Pox, and anything created from it would be stillborn. However, I'm not a full demon, am I, Clarissa? Who's to say that it wouldn't work? And who's to say that it would be any less powerful or able that anything you and Jonathan might produce?"

 _"_ _I would rather-"_

"Whatever promise you're about to make, Clarissa, I hope to the Angel that you're prepared to follow it through. I don't particularly tolerate empty promises," he said teasingly, but Clary could hear the underlying threat to his voice. "And, by the Angel, I hope you aren't going to say what I think you are, because you're the only one who I will allow to bear the future sons and daughters of the Morgenstern Kingdom."

"I would rather _die_ , than bear your spawn, Jonathon," she finished, proudly.

He _tsked_ unhappily. "I won't be the one to do it, Sister, when the time comes." He looked pointedly at Jace from the corner of his eyes. Jace looked as defeated as Clary felt in this hellhole. Yet, she still couldn't let herself believe that he could ever follow through with one of Jonathon's orders – king, lifesaver, brother or not. She couldn't let herself let go of the idea that Jace was only playing her brother, as he had once played them. And if it was because of a rune? Well, he had overcome it and she had destroyed it the first time – they could do it again. "Golden Boy will," he confirmed, as if neither of them understood what he had meant.

 _"_ I will _never_ allow myself to be put in the situation where I am _pregnant_ with your demonic offspring!" She said, outraged. "The time will never come! I will kill myself before you have the chance to lay one filthy finger-"

He laughed, and Jace looked uncomfortable. It was as if he wanted to interject, but he couldn't. _Why couldn't he?_ "Do you want to die, Clary?" He asked humorously. She only glared at him in response. "It certainly sounds like it," he answered anyway. "If now is the time to be making promises, then I will make one of my own. I will never rape you Clarissa, as you probably expect me to do eventually; I need your trust and loyalty, and sexually assaulting you seems like a fine way of losing it."

Clary felt disgusted. "Are you implying - you sick bastard - that I will come to you _willingly_?"

He merely smiled. The king turned his head minutely to the side to address Jace. "And you, Brother, what is your promise? Perhaps we can help each other achieve their goals, like a supportive, functional family," he said mockingly.

"I hope..." he started, unsure of how to continue. " I _hope_..."

"Ah, a prayer in the world of promises," he commented.

Clary watched Jace carefully as he racked his brain for a way to finish his so-called prayer. It was as if he was trying to find a different - a new, better way of saying what he wanted to say, as if it might offend Jonathon. She pitied him a little; he must've been a prisoner here for a while, if he was tiptoeing around "the king" so carefully, when she was actively saying whatever she thought.

Jonathon, on the other hand, had shifted his body around to curiously wait on what his "brother" had to say. Clary could tell that he was only doing this to mock her and Jace further with their dreams, which they could never achieve, thanks to their new king, while in Idris. It was cruel.

After a few moments, Jonathon sighed dramatically and walked over to the targets to retrieve their knives and replace them on the rack. "Come now, Jonathan. The world is a clock winding down, after all," he said impatiently. "No promise is worth that-"

"I hope that I am the last out of this place," he said quietly, interrupting Jonathon for the first time. Jonathon was the first to react to his promise, grinning wickedly at Jace. He even walked back to Jace and Clary somewhat smugly.

"Oh, Brother, that _is_ a vague promise you've made," he said slyly. "I hope that I'm still around to see the outcome of this promise."

 _Me too_ , thought Clary.

Without waiting for a response of any form from either of them, and threw the last knife. Clary gasped, having forgotten about his little game; Jonathon smiled wider in return. It struck the mannequin in the heart.

"Lastly, as you will soon discover, we are more than heirs to each other and family. Our own individual actions have effects on one another, and so now is not the time to be selfish. We must be one soul," he said. "I expect that to be understood." He bowed his head, careful not to let his crown - which was unnoticeably too large for his own head - to slip. "That is the end to your introduction to training, Sister. Your proper training starts in a week, with Jonathan, and I hope that you improve from how you were today. You are free to go back to your room, and are to stay there until I decide to allow you the freedom privileges. Jonathan," he said, turning to him. "I'll see you tomorrow. You're welcome to stay here and continue training - perhaps you'll overthrow me next time."

With a flourish, he walked out of the training room. Clary saw this moment to speak to Jace alone, and was so excited that she didn't give a thought about Jonathon wanting to segregate them, purposely. Before she had a chance to say anything to Jace, one of Jonathon's personal guards had come in and dragged her out.

Jace watched her go sadly.


	4. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan and Jonathon play chess together, while Jonathon tries to play Jonathan.

_"Divine right of kings means the divine right of anyone who can get uppermost."_

* * *

"Take a seat, Jonathan."

He obeyed, settling into his weekly seat in front of Jonathon's desk. His so-called brother merely studied him, eyes barely lifting from one of his usual, top-secret (so secret, he had never once hinted to him about its contents) documents that he was scanning, as he relaxed into the wooden chair opposite him.

The king waved away his guards that had accompanied him, preferring - always preferring - to be alone with each other. It was a time when the king could gain a true understanding of how Jonathan was coping, especially with the arrival of their sister, and how committed he was to their cause.

"Have you given more thought to what I asked of you the other day?" The king asked, sounding bored.

"No," Jace replied shortly. Quietly. "But you are the king; it's your choice, of course."

The king grunted, and scribbled harsher on his papers. A long silence stretched between them. Jace was reluctant to move - or do anything - other than stay put in his chair and uncomfortably fidget until he was given a direct order from Jonathon.

He heard papers ruffling, but Jace was no longer seeing. He was staring straight ahead of himself, thinking about everything that had passed. How he had gotten here; not necessarily to the Morgenstern Manor – but how he had gotten to this point in his life where he and his half-demonic (for all intents and purposes) stepbrother met up on a weekly basis, where they discussed his dictatorship and Jace didn't do anything to hinder his plans.

The king delivered a sharp blow to his shin from under his desk. Jace supposed he looked surprised, exactly what his brother was aiming for, he suspected, as he smirked and said, "Ah, so you're not having a stroke. Nice to know you're still with us, brother."

"I was only thinking, Jonathon," he said.

Jonathon snorted. "Thoughts are dangerous," he murmured. "Be careful what you do with them." He then picked up his papers and shuffled them about on his desk, then slid them into the top drawer. "Well?" He asked impatiently, raising an eyebrow. "Do I have to go get the entertainment every week? You know where it's kept – and don't forget the drinks."

Happy to finally have something to do other than sit in his chair, he quickly got up and retreated to the back of his office, to where the drinks cabinet was and the secret hatch in where he kept an old, wooden chessboard. Jace grabbed the board and the whiskey, and retreated back to his seat. Jonathon relaxed in his chair as his brother set out their usual activity.

The king smirked. "Dear brother, it doesn't matter what colour piece you are; it won't help you win." Jonathon was always white; he was the king, and therefore he always made the first move in any battle – wits, war, women.

"Maybe your skill lies in you making the starting move."

"The skill, Jonathan, lies in having control. You have to make sacrifices – but not useless ones that won't contribute to your overall win. The sacrifices you make have to be worth it. You, brother, never win because you see every soldier in your army as indispensable – that's not true, obviously. All you need is your king; without your king, the game is lost - every other player in between can easily be thrown away."

"Am I disposable?" Jace asked suddenly.

His brother paused purposely, already knowing his answer (of course. He was the king. He had to know every answer) but wanting to create uncertainty inside Jace. He always needed Jace to be uncertain; if he was not uncertain, then he would be able to understand what he was doing here. He would understand what was going to happen, if he didn't already suspect it slightly now.

Yet he was uncertain, so he wouldn't ever act on it.

"Nearly everyone is. Yes. You are," he said smoothly.

"And Clary – is she?"

The king's head jerked sharply, and his black eyes connected with his. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he had made mistake. Phantom aches and pains danced across his body. He winced.

"Clarissa-" He tried to correct.

"Clarissa," he growled, confirming her name. He said it again, as if to reassure himself and Jace of her name. "I'd watch yourself now, brother."

He knew that Jonathon had a problem with the nickname "Clary" – they had spoken about it before, and it had been direct and clipped and threatening enough for Jace to know that he had severely pissed him off. He would have to tread lightly from now on, other he could easily make it worse for himself. It wasn't something that he had the habit of wanting to repeat.

Better to grovel now, Jace supposed. Kings liked it when their subjects groveled; it made them feel even more powerful. "I'm sorry-"

"Stop," Jonathon snapped. He huffed angrily.

 _Perhaps_ , Jace thought, _Jonathon had been too insulted this time by my ignorance_. His mouth opened and closed multiple times, like a gaping fish. He looked stupid. He was always looking stupid.

"Are you going to play? Or sit there like a fool? I don't invite you here for your presence. You're here to play chess with me."

Startled and nervous, Jace quickly moved a pawn without surveying the rest of the board. Jonathon rolled his eyes and snatched away a bishop that should have been moved instead. Jace cast his eyes down.

The king took a long gulp of his whiskey. "Jonathan, what are we playing?" He asked, as he waited for Jace to regain his wits and move his pieces.

"Chess," came his short reply.

"No." Another white piece was taken off the board and into the king's hands. " _What are we playing_?"

"The game of kings," he tried again.

"Good." Jace thought he would have smirked, but he knew that he was too angry to smirk now. "Why?"

 _Because it shows me how trapped Clary and I are in this castle. We are the white pieces and you are the black. Whether we play first or second, we always play into your hand. You will win. You win the game of kings at every turn_. "I don't know," he muttered.

"Don't be idiotic. I have told you this."

He shrugged, knowing somewhere in his heart that he shouldn't have, that he will only get in trouble with Jonathon for it. "It seems pointless."

"If you want to learn how to rule kings, brother, this is how you do it. Unfortunately," he added, "you don't have a desperate desire to take up the mantle."

"You're the king," he responded, almost robotically.

"Yes," he hissed, eyes sparkling with an inner joy. "I am the king."

* * *

They played for a few minutes more – until Jonathon upheld his title as champion – and Jace was encouraged to drink more whiskey – which he did, not wanting to upset Jonathon any further. Finally, Jonathon, feeling that he had gotten Jace into a more favourable state, began to question him on what they had previously discussed.

However, previously – when the king had brought it up a few weeks ago, first before Clarissa's arrival, and then continually in the following weeks - Jace had clammed up at the mere thought it. He wouldn't utter anything that sounded as if it would disrespect him in the slightest. A shy, complacent Jace wasn't what he wanted at all – that was _too easy_.

"Now, brother," he started smoothly. "As you very well know, you are the heir to my throne; second in line for it, naturally."

Jace nodded, looking dazed but content.

"Every king needs an heir. Am I correct? That's their main worry. Nevertheless, I already have an heir - two, in fact. However, we are not safe in this Manor, as I've recently discovered; the rebels are gathering forces and are preparing to attack. What happens if you and Clarissa are captured? Or worse - murdered? I need another reassurance that this Kingdom will stay in the family, as a monarchy is supposed to. I need you to do another favour for me, little brother."

"A... an heir of an heir," he slurred.

"A nephew." Jonathon nodded. "A little prince - or princess, of course! I want you to have your own safety net, your own heir."

"With Clary." It sounded more like a statement than a question, which Jonathon assumed was what he meant.

He had to restrain himself from backhanding him hard enough for him to fall off his chair. "No, not with Clarissa." He emphasised her name. "With one of my faithful subjects - a princess in their own land of Edom."

He nodded sagely. "A demon."

"Yes." He poured Jace more whiskey, which he gladly took. "I need to see if my father was right is his theory, as well. He wrote that your extra angelic blood might improve the chances of crossbreeding with a demon. Imagine the power that child would have. Heirs to two kingdoms; a Shadowhunter's skill with demon savagery; immune to seraph blades; able to create angelic and demonic runes. And, overall, _a Morgenstern."_

That was mostly a lie, of course, but there were truths. The king did need more heirs than he already had, and an intoxicated Jace (a sober Jace could work, but his mind wasn't as easy) would do anything to aid his big brother's rule – especially if it meant being safe.

Moreover, the king needed to see how far-fetched his father's breeding theories may be, so he could start with Clarissa. He had a lot of work to do with her first, however, but he didn't expect that to take long. Before the rebels became too close to the Manor, he hoped.

"A Morgenstern," he whispered to himself wonderingly. He shook his head. "But...I'm not a Morgenstern unless..."

Jonathon tried to be patient. "Unless - you do this favour for me, as my brother and your ruler."

" _Unless_ ," Jace said emphatically. "Unless I married Cl- _Clarissa._ You said. You promised."

The king grinded his teeth. "Kings _lie,_ Jonathan," he hissed. "Besides, you promised that you would die before you married her, stay in this court of your own free will or give up her location – and so far, you have done two of those – _yet you're still alive._ Call that a generosity of a king."

Jace blinked and nodded. He looked upset that he had said such things, but it wasn't as if Jonathon cared much about the feelings of his brother. He had denied having Clarissa, which meant she was his for the taking; his to marry, to make love to, his to control.

His brother trembled in his seat.

"Brother," he started again with a silky voice. He stood up from his seat and moved over to where Jace was sitting, on the opposite side of his desk, and leaned against it. This was a time when he knew he had to be purposely persuasive, and over the course of time with Jace, he knew exactly how to adapt himself. He tousled Jace's hair with brotherly affection. "As a king is this new world, I have the power to _make_ you a Morgenstern. Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern; Jace Morgenstern. You would succeed Clarissa as heir, and your son or daughter would also succeed her." He picked up the decanter and poured Jace another round, handing it to him slowly. Behind his brother, he beckoned someone into the room. They walked in quietly; Jace did not notice. The king held his brother face in his calloused hands, looking deep into his eyes.

Slowly and thankfully, Jonathon saw Jace looking hopeful and trusting - like a puppy looks to its master.

"You said it was my decision as king, brother, and you're right. It is. Moreover, I _want_ this to happen, preferably with your consent or moral obligation as my subject and family. You'll be important to me and this kingdom – _important._ You'll no longer be disposable."

Jace hollowly repeated words.

Brother.

Important.

Disposable.

Important. Important. _Important_.

"Yes." The king nodded. "Important. If you choose not to accept this proposal, however, Jonathan, then I fear we may be back to square one." Now, the king looked at his brother mournfully, as if he was pained and sorry to consider it. "You remember how much it... _hurt_ me to keep you down there, as a brother, Jonathan? With all the prisoners and traitors..."

"It was dark. So dark," Jace agreed.

He nodded. "Yes. It was. Dark times for me as well."

Jace was no longer drinking. Instead, he was staring off into the distance; out the window opposite him, to where fire still burned on the hills of Idris, looking more illuminated than it usually did, now that it was night. The screaming had stopped a few weeks ago, but Jace remembered the screaming. He'd always remember the screaming.

However, Jace now felt that he understood. Perhaps if the Clave was more organised and had an interest in their people's safety, then the last Shadowhunters may feel as he did now. The Clave could've stopped this. They could've ended this.

But they let their people die.

The king huffed and pushed off from the desk. "Perhaps, little brother, you better go to sleep in your chambers. You look tired. We'll put this on hold and continue it some other day." When Jace struggled to get up, he beckoned the guard closer to them to help Jace hobble to his chambers whilst the king turned to the window Jace was previously staring out of, and listened to the noise below the window, where extra soldiers were being sent out to join the battle. Jonathon longed to go with them, it having been months since he fought amongst his cavalry, but he had yet to finish with Jonathan or Clarissa.

"And – Jonathan?" The boy grunted. "This has nothing to do with my sister, so leave Clarissa out of it. You are training with her tomorrow afternoon - don't forget. Good. And remember what I said about training sessions, brother; I don't want anyone to get any ideas regarding my benevolence."


	5. Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathon takes the Game of Kings to a new level, as he rounds up his heirs, demons and prisoners to join him on the chequered board. However, the game quickly sours when Clarissa is unfairly attacked by one of his players.

_"Power makes you a monarch, and all the fancy robes in the world won't do the job without it."  
_

* * *

Clary wondered whether all their training sessions were going to be this inane – or, better yet, whether she'd ever get a choice to attend. She'd take such pleasuring in denying his 'generous invitation'.

However, Clary felt like even with a choice she'd still attend. Maybe she would discover what Jonathon was doing, or what exactly his and Jace's dynamic was now – or she could even stumble upon the perfect opportunity to kill her brother.

"Check," Jace announced, turning his demonic stallion around to march back along the board towards his brother. He hadn't been out for long; Jonathon had desperately tried to keep him in play as long as possible for whatever reason Clary could not comprehend, but she couldn't deny that it was a fierce display of violence and skill.

It was something that was designed to install fear and awe.

Clary hopelessly scanned the few players she had left, players that were trembling in their costumes, equipped with only the most basic of knives, swords, shields and bows, with the higher placed players being allowed to have their personal seraph blade for protection. Clary herself had been gifted with the same solid gold sceptre as her brother had, which was easily able to be used as a baton, but which was also hollowed out. She had also been given a shield with the Morgenstern family crest emblazoned on it, a bow, her seraph blade (which had been confiscated off her on her arrival) and two daggers strapped to her hips.

Out of everyone on the board, she was the most equipped.

As the game had progressed, she had watched as some of her players were wounded and others were largely untouched - but had watched the similar look of hopelessness creep into their bodies as they watched the massacre of friends and fellow rebels at their rivals. Particularly at the hands of Jace, who some of the Shadowhunters had met or known, on his hell-born beast. Their new, glorious king preferred to stand close to his original place at the back of the board, however, Clary could see, even from her place that he wanted to fight.

He wanted to fight _desperately_.

She felt sickened by this game and once more couldn't begin to understand how Jace was able to play with such deadliness and lack of remorse. When he was used to take her own players, like normal chess, they were not allowed to fight back; they were allowed to defend themselves with whatever they'd been given, but they _weren't_ allowed to attack him. Some did, though – which was natural and fair when your life was in danger - and Clary would cringe in her place as Jace's eyes glinted and quickly ended their life. Him and Jonathon were only playing cat and mouse with her and her players, she knew, and it made her hate them even more.

She was ready to scream and order her king to kneel in surrender when she watched how Jace was defeated. She should've known, known that despite this game that her brother had created and the countless times she'd seen her own fighters die in futility or their victorious wins over his lesser demons, Jonathon would never allow Jace to die like everyone else. Clary could've taken the victory for herself, but it would've meant leaving her king undefended, so she sent one of her bishops instead. Her bishop was a stocky, red-haired man with a scar that spanned from his left temple to the right side of his chin, with two of his own seraph blades slung across his back and a spearhead attached to the butt of his crosier.

Jonathon allowed her bishop three well-placed, non-life-threatening blows to Jace and his stallion, before sending Jace off the board to continue refereeing the game. If she was in the place of her bishop, she liked to think that she would've risked her life to try to kill Jace and rid this awful kingdom of the present king's protégée. However, thankfully, she supposed, her bishop was more cautious and wiser than her, only slashing across the warhorse's side with his crosier, punching Jace across the face (breaking his nose) and dislocating his shoulder.

Her bishop was safe, but Jace wasn't nearly as wounded as he should be. He should be dead. Dead. Dead. Dead, like all of her fellow rebels fighting for their lives on this life-sized chessboard against Jonathon's demon army.

Against _him_ , the traitor.

"Clarissa Morgenstern," Jace called, reining his warhorse towards her. Ugly, dead, hollowed-out eyes stared at her - at least, she assumed that it was looking at her. Nevertheless, who could really tell when it had no eyes to judge from? "It's your move."

"Yes, do hurry up, Clarissa," Jonathon joked from across the board. He twirled his sceptre that she knew hid arrows inside, though he hadn't yet used the bow slung across his back (she didn't think he'd use his arrows so close-range, but rather predicted that it was more for show), as he preferred to use the solid gold quiver as a baton. She hadn't quite expected it to be as effective as it was. "It's so _boring_ waiting."

"Uh." Her voice quivered; she hated herself for sounding weak in front of her players and brother(s). She was the Queen on her side of the board, gifted with her own crown and purple, velveteen cloak that hung off her shoulders. The crown - or tiara, as it was more likely - was smaller than Jonathon's was and wasn't decorated with gems, but instead properly sat atop her head and was pure silver.

She couldn't begin to think about where he had found them or whether Jace had his own too.

It was of no importance anyway, she had decided early on. She was responsible for the protection of her players, no matter whether it was a predetermined war. She had to _try_.

Everyone was spread out on the board. She had a young Shadowhunter pawn blocked by one of Jonathon's lesser demons, next to which, was his Queen that was currently checking her king in the opposite corner of the board. She could easily move her knight, who was sat atop a more mundane-looking horse, which was in front of his last bishop, but moving the knight wouldn't block the attack from the Queen, nor would it kill her.

The only play that Clary could see…The only one that would _work,_ would be if she moved herself. It would be Queen versus Queen, but when – or _if –_ Jonathon moved his to attack, then she would easily be sent off the board as he had done for Jace, and her king would once again be open for attack without any of her protection. Without her, what were the chances that a pawn, knight and king would win against her brother's 9 other pieces?

Well, to be fair to them, they never had a chance of winning right from the beginning. They were facing a better equipped demon army, with a king who had clearly planned and fought in countless battles, whereas Clary didn't have any experience of battle organisation whatsoever.

Clary picked up her dress and marched across the board to stand next to her king, carefully avoiding the dead bodies that scattered the path before her, and blocking the diagonal path. She expected Jonathon to send his Queen over to eliminate her and finish the game for once and for all, and he didn't disappoint. As with Jace, his Demon Queen was only allowed three strikes on her body before she was sent off, and Clary was only allowed to defend herself.

However, as the Queen prepared to strike, Clary took the opportunity to wedge her daggers into the chest of her enemy, and knock her and her crown to the floor with the butt of her sceptre. The demon hissed and spat, and pulled Clary's feet out from under her using her demon-metal whip before Clary could defend herself from it.

She screamed as it burned through the skin on her ankles, and cut deeper as Clary struggled to free herself of the restraint. Soon after being floored, Jace and Jonathon had left their posts, putting the game on pause as they took care of their little sister and punished his Queen for using demon-metal.

Clary could faintly hear that none of his army playing today were supposed to be using it – _especially_ on his little sister, their _real_ future Queen. Demon-metal was no _for_ little angels like Clarissa; it wasn't for Jace either, as he decided to point out. He did not care that Clary was disregarding the rules by trying to kill the demon – she was young and inexperienced, he chalked it up to. She was _wild._

She was still screaming and crying and frantically clawing at the coil around her ankles, which was only burning and cutting her hands, when Jace pinned her down on the ground to stop her moving and used his knife to cut through the coil to free her legs. He did not calm her or pay any attention to her begging and pleas. Clary only screamed louder and begged more as the coil cut deeper from his movements.

"By the Angel, Clary won't you stop moving? Hold sti - _hold still._ You're only making it worse," Jace said through gritted teeth, looking back at her writhing body. Clary stopped as he asked long enough to watch his face twist into fury and turn back to what he was doing. A small tremor ran through his body.

Clary quietened as much as she could until it snapped, terrified of what she had seen on his face, and mystified at the way he had said Angel, so different from how he had said her nickname. Clary slipped from his lips as if it was something he wasn't supposed to say. Like a secret. Angel now sounded like a threat, much harsher than a simple curse.

Jonathon, on the other hand, was exacting his form of kingly justice against his Queen, and any of his other soldiers whom he had found carrying demon-metal as a weapon. She wasn't sure what his justice was, as she was pinned to the floor and her tears blurred her vision, but she didn't think he'd kill them, but there weren't any screams or sound of any kind.

Could he really spare anyone in his army? Was the supply of demons endless? She didn't understand or know.

However, as Jace pulled her shaking body into his arms to place on his horse, after slicing her free, she watched as Jonathon paused and looked at them. Black ichor was sprayed across his face, which was set into a determined and amused mask. The whip in his hand, which she noticed had JCM engraved on the handle, had long droplets of ichor running down it, which pooled on the chessboard. His crown, on his pale head, glowed brighter than it had ever did before.

He was the King of Demons. Not one moved from their place on the board as they watched him deal out the punishment, and even the one being punished did not cry out or shake or move, but Clary knew that it wasn't dead.

She stared at the King of Demons, from the arms of the prince, and the King stared back.

"Jonathan," he said calmly, then smiled. "Careful that no ichor touches her wounds, otherwise it'll become infected. This training session is over, for the both of you. You fought valiantly." He wiped his brow with the sleeves of his robe. "Take her back to my room – you know where everything is kept and what to do. Leave her there once she is settled and come back here to collect her last players, for they are also gallant and wounded."

" _No,"_ Clary protested, infuriated. There was no way that she was going to be locked in Jonathon's quarters whilst wounded and alone. And what of her acquaintances? She had to see that they were going to be safe while still trapped inside this castle.

Nevertheless, she was injured and much weaker that Jace and was unable to do anything as she was placed atop his warhorse. Quicker than she could fight back, Jace took away her tiara, bow, sceptre, shield and seraph blade and threw them on the floor by his feet. He then climbed on the horse behind her, caging her in his arms without a word, and rode them out of the grand hall.

Before they were completely out of earshot, Clary heard him call that he would see her later, and then returned to whipping.

* * *


	6. Weapons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathon returns to his room, where an injured Clarissa awaits him, after dealing out justice to his players. Contrary to what Clarissa may have believed about demons and her brother, he could heal as well as he could destroy; that, however, doesn't mean he can't heal while he manipulates her further.

_"I must be cruel, only to be kind."_

* * *

Jace left her as soon as she was comfortably deposited on Jonathon's bed, locking the door behind him and hurrying back to whatever Jonathon wanted him for.

Or that was what she assumed.

Clary had passed out from pain (or blood loss, considering the state of his once-clean sheets) sometime between moving from the training room to the king's chamber. Once she regained consciousness, she discovered herself to be laid on the bed and alone in a spacious room.

It was too quiet in his chamber and minimally decorated; she expected there to be more signs of his kingship within his bedroom – or at least signs of life from when their father lived in his manor, but perhaps he and his son were more similar than she imagined – and Clary expected to be able to hear any chaos that was happening outside the room. She was also morbidly aware that she was unable to move or fight back, should Jonathon find her place on his bed too much to his liking; she had of course tried to swing her injured leg off the bed to see whether it would endure, but it was leaden and only covered with loose bandages. The pain was so strong that she had to stuff her fist in her mouth to muffle the screams.

It was what felt like hours later, when she was on the brink of sleep, did her brother seem to remember that he was to see her. She couldn't decide whether she was disappointed that he was without Jace or not, but she supposed that she was most likely to be safer with Jace in the room with her no matter his concerning allegiance.

Jonathon had shed his robe at some point on his walk to his room, as well as every weapon (except for the whip), but his horribly unfitted crown was still balanced on the top of his head, now looking duller due to the splotches of ichor that had been sprayed from the demon bodies. The black ichor had been smudged across his face too, from where he had tried to wipe it clean with the sleeves of his robe, and gave his black Shadowhunting gear a slimy sheen. Parts of him looked as if he had been rolling around in it.

"How are you feeling?" He asked distractedly, as he began to take off his hunting gear. (Clary realised with a startle that she had been the only one on the board that had not been clothed in hunting gear. Even the captured Shadowhunters had been clothed in their own gear.)

She wasn't quite sure whether she expected him to stop after he took off his bracers and greaves or not, but once he continued to strip himself of his leather jacket and replaced his trousers for a cleaner pair, Clary couldn't help but stare at the number of runes that he had spread across his torso, arms and even down his legs. The amount of black or silver ink upon his body only served to remind her of his Shadowhunter upbringing, so different to how her mother had raised her; but also showed her how much more experience he had, being two years older, in the Shadowhunter world. Some of the runes that he had drawn upon his body she didn't even recognise or understand, but still instinctually knew that they were angelic. Clary didn't even know whether her brother was also able to create his own runes or not, which was particularly concerning considering that he was demonic and the new rune creations on his body were angelic; she suspected Jace was behind it, but she had never known that he had that power.

Then, Jonathon shifted to the side to place his whip on his dresser, and she saw three, large, intersecting scars lining his back that were still so swollen that they looked as if they were new. It wasn't hard to tell that he had had them for a few years at the least, however, from the way he moved with ease, as if they weren't there. Clary briefly wondered what had caused them or _who_ had done that to him as she looked to the ceiling when he turned back around to look at her, but in the very core of her being she knew that he deserved them.

"Are you feeling fatigue? Nausea? Excessive pain still? It should've died down by now," he listed, prompting Clary into an answer, as he moved over to his basin and washed the ichor off his face and hands.

Clary snorted. "As if you care," she spat.

He pouted playfully, turning to look at her over his bare shoulder, showing off his scars once again. "Will your views of me ever change, dear sister? I haven't brought you any harm," he said tiredly. "In fact, I'm about to heal this horrible wound you've gained, with minimum scarring. Is that not worth something?"

She frowned. Clary wondered whether his scars were caused by demon-metal, but she was loath to ask him. He already seemed close to snapping; she could see the amounts of stress his was feeling in his face, and the bloodlust that still lingered in his eyes. "I'm your prisoner." She gritted her teeth to prevent a few choice words from escaping as he walked passed her. "You're not doing this out of kindness."

He smiled charmingly at her, as his hands gently unwound the loose bandages that Jace had wrapped around her ankle. Clary couldn't bear to look at the damage that the demon-metal had caused, especially if the state of it was proportional to the pain. "You're my guest," he retorted. "I brought you into the manor for safety; should you have been left to roam Idris, you could have easily been killed in one of the many battles that are occurring. Many of my soldiers wouldn't have been able to recognise you until now. You have eaten my offered food; I have given you freedom over the manor; I have not harmed you or done anything against you. I have even let you see your precious _'Jace'_ , instead of keeping you isolated. Most of what I have done, Clarissa, was out of kindness. You are my sister."

She scoffed.

He shrugged his shoulders delicately, focusing on the wound that was now exposed to him. His eyebrows then furrowed, and set his mouth into a grim line as he leaned in closer to her ankle. His long, thin fingers lightly and fleetingly touched areas around the injury, and Clary couldn't help but think that he could've been an artist as well, had he been raised by their mother and had her traits encouraged and developed rather than Valentine's focus on his demonic nature. "The good news is that it hasn't been infected by any ichor and the whip hasn't cut that deep," he said. He hovered around the wound for a moment more, looking critically at it. Suddenly, he apologised too quickly for Clary to process and so abruptly that it seemed meaningless, then pressed his fine fingers in her wound.

Clary screamed. The pain was so unexpected that she didn't have a chance to think about how weak it'd make her look to him, and by the time she had thought to stuff her fist in her mouth to muffle the screams, he was close to finishing his poke-around. She tearfully whimpered once he removed his fingers.

"Before I tell you the bad news, I think this is going to have to be cleaned up," he muttered, rubbing her sticky blood between his fingers in a mesmerised manner. He walked towards the basin and filled it with water. He waited for it to fill halfway, before carrying it over and setting it on the floor, where he then knelt. He dabbed at the wound with a practiced finesse.

She tried to distract herself from his blood-covered fingers and the after-effects of the pain. There was only one thing that came to mind. One thing that bothered her from the moment he had said it. "Why do you say his name like that?" She said.

There was a momentary pause as he appeared not to have heard her, since he was concentrating so hard on what he was doing. Clary was just about to repeat herself, hoping to gain his attention, but then he spoke: "Who?" He asked.

"Jace," she said quickly, grasping onto the distraction. "Why do you say his name as you do?"

He sniffed haughtily. "Because Jace isn't his name," he answered shortly. "Just as Clary isn't yours."

"But we've been known by those names for most of our lives," she protested. "What does it matter if they're not the names we were formally given? Jace was never given an official name."

She saw the muscles tensing in his jaw. "He was named Jonathan Christopher by our father. That is the first name he ever had, and so that is his name." He looked at her challengingly from under his eyelashes, barely moving his head to watch her.

"You share the same name. You only-"

"We do not!" Jonathon suddenly shouted, his body trembling with suppressed anger. The abruptness of it made Clary flinch. "We don't share the name. The name is purely mine; I was born first. He stole it." Jonathon quietly seethed, secretly thinking about everything that he hated about Jace and everything he both admired and envied in Jonathan. His sharp face slowly turned sulky as he looked away from her. "It's easier to name your experiments the same thing."

Clary was about to say something else, worried and concerned about what he was saying, but he stood, emptied the basin and threw away the wads of tissue that he had used, and walked out of the door. She didn't understand his justification for changing their names only because they weren't the names they were given at birth; especially in the case of Jace. He had never been _given_ an official by his true parents. Did Jonathon even think of him as a Herondale? Or was he considered a true brother, of their Morgenstern lineage? What difference did it make for her or Jace to be known by a different name than what they were used to? Why would her brother, who was more narcissistic and jealous than she had ever known Jace to be, want to give Jace his own name out of his own free will after he said that Jace had "stolen" it?

If he had so wanted, he could've fashioned Jace an entirely new name.

Jonathon came back moments later and sat on a chair opposite the bed, not saying anything but staring right at her, as if he could see through her soul. He pressed his fingertips together, and rested his chin atop them. His soulless black eyes unnerved her, but Clary liked to entertain the thought that she could see a faint ring of green around his pupil.

"Jonathan has told me that you can create runes," he stated, looking at her inquiringly. He raised a white eyebrow. "Is that true?"

"What of my ankle?" She retorted, worried and irritated about his subject change, especially because of what he decided to change it to.

"I've sent someone to get something for that. They'll be back shortly." He shrugged nonchalantly. "You'll need stitches, and you'll have to train harder with Jonathan and me or your right leg will be forever weaker. This would've easily been avoidable, of course, if you had played by the rules…"

"Well, when the game is fixed-"

"How do you avoid losing?" He suggested.

Her look was all the confirmation he needed.

"Wonderful question, Clarissa. When you figure it out, do tell me about it."

There was a quiet tap at the door then, and Jonathon, still looking amused by her, walked to the door and opened it. He guided the demon into his room and ordered it to set up everything he had requested; once it was finished, it left. Jonathan, on the other hand, was currently opening various drawers in his room, looking for appropriate glassware to pour some of the alcohol from the two bottles cradled in his arms into.

Clary didn't know why he had them, but she knew that she wasn't going to be even slightly inebriated in his presence.

He thrust a cup of green liquid into her hands before moving back to his position on the floor, next to her wounded ankle with the other bottle of clear alcohol, and his own tumbler glass of the drink he had given to her. He took a swig of it. "Go ahead, sister. Drink it." He smirked devilishly. "You're going to need any pain relief you can get your hands on," he said darkly.

It suddenly dawned on her what he was going to do, yet she still looked at the drink he had given her suspiciously. She wasn't sure how much more pain she should could endure without any aid. She looked over to her brother kneeling on the floor, watching her, and skilfully threading a needle; Clary couldn't help but pray that he could hold his liquor if he was going to do the stitches himself and drink.

He raised an eyebrow. "What, you never had absinthe before?"

"I don't drink alcohol regularly, especially since you started a war."

"Someone had to," he replied. He placed the threaded needle between his teeth, and reached for the other bottle of alcohol, which he opened. "If you're going to drink, better drink now. We don't have any antiseptics or rubbing alcohol, so this is the best we've got."

He waited a moment, to see if she changed her mind and drank, before pouring the liquid onto her fresh wound. The cup was touching her lips, and she was mid-swallow, before it hit the cut. She choked as a scream rose from her throat.

"You absolute bastard," Clary cried. Jonathon pretended not to have heard her.

When he stopped pouring to lift her leg so that he was able to read the underside of it, she took the opportunity to chug as much of the absinthe as she could before it started again. When he restarted, she was relieved to find that the pain had become more numbed. Before long, he had finished cleansing it; to her pleasure, the stitching hurt considerably less.

"You never did answer me about your rune-creating ability," he murmured, concentrating on his handiwork.

Clary had forgotten that he had ever brought it up, but the idea of it – that Jace would tell him such a thing – was enough to caused her resentment of her brother, and the every growing hatred of Jace to rise, despite whatever pain she was experiencing. She sneered. "I thought you would have waited longer before exploiting my angelic gifts for your own purposes."

"My own purposes?" He laughed. "Dear Clarissa, you would use the gifts our father and the Angel Ithuriel gave you however you intend."

"Father stole that angel's blood. They did not _give it_ to me, I did not _want_ it. If I was able to use it however I wanted, then you would be dead," she spat.

"Oh?" He sounded unsurprised, but he gave her a playful look. "So it doesn't quite work like that, then? Not on command. Well, I _suppose_ I can't put you in charge of the Shadowhunter battalion, then."

She knew that he was purposely playing her, purposely saying everything that she needed to hear to agree or inquire about his plans for his war, but Clary couldn't help it. She _had_ to know what he was speaking about; what the Shadowhunter battalion was and why he would give her power over a large group of warriors. Did he really trust her enough already to tempt her to organise a coup by giving her authority over a group of Shadowhunters?

Unless…they were his Dark Shadowhunters. Then she wouldn't stand a chance. Still, Clary had never even _seen_ any Shadowhunters around the manor, and angelic runes wouldn't work on them. Surely, Jonathon knew that.

"How was it _supposed_ to work?" She questioned. "What is this 'Shadowhunter battalion'?"

"Well, I think you've had long enough to settle in, little sister. You've been here for almost three weeks and haven't contributed at all to the war effort," he said, leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees. "The Shadowhunter battalion is made up of all the Shadowhunters who have switched allegiance for the promise of a better future; Shadowhunters that have had their home destroyed here in Idris, or some of the many others that are coming in from Institutes across the world. Of course, in a war, you need every soldier you can spare out on the front winning your battles, and so that is why I have the Shadowhunter battalion. It displays a sense of strong unity if they're fighting side-by-side with the demons and other Downworlders."

"What am I supposed to do as leader of-"

"General. You'd be the general, dear sister. Leader of the vanguard. The vanguard are the people who are at the front of an army," he said simply. "Clary, my purpose for you is to order the vanguard for an approaching battle, train them to fighting standard, and provide them with runes-"

She suddenly became angry. "They're at the front because you think they're disposable!" She snapped. "Well, I _don't._ They were good people before you took them hostage and made them drink from your Infernal Cup! They-"

This time, she cut herself off as she heard her brother burst into laughter. He was shaking with it. Jonathon had to stop his stitching as he recovered from it. He stood from his crouch and rummaged around in his room for something. He hummed amusedly after he calmed down. "Your lack of knowledge is amusing, sister."

"Prisoners aren't exactly told anything," she bit out. "But I do know that the Endarkened won't respond to _my_ runes – angelic runes – even if I was as loyal as your little pet, Jace."

He tutted disappointedly, closing the cupboard behind him and turning around to face her once more. In his hands was the Infernal Cup; after the initial panic of being made to drink from it abided, she realised that the intricate decorations on the goblet had been scratched and chipped, damaged from a fight most likely – but it was also covered in a thin layer of dust, which Jonathon blew into the air. "You're wrong to judge Jonathan so harshly," he stated. "Anyway, my Clarissa, as you can see this cup," which he lifted into the air as if he was toasting someone, "hasn't been used in a while. I'll tell you truthfully, sister – I haven't used the Infernal Cup since I began this kingdom. All the Shadowhunters in the battalion are uncorrupted people – 'good people', as you described them – and have all come to me of their own accord. If I had wanted to create demonic runes to befit Endarkened Ones, I would do it myself."

"Jace is a traitor," she said simply. "And you are a lying monster. The Shadowhunters have no reason to join with you willingly or of their own conscience, someone who is destroying their home and friends and family. Someone who is letting _demons_ access their world, which they usually fight to keep out. I haven't even seen any from the time that I have been here. Where are they? _Where are they being kept?"_

There was a sudden voice at his door. "Your highness," a demon rasped, bent ever-so-slightly in a bow.

"Yes?" Jonathon snapped suddenly, not taking his eyes off Clary. They silently challenged and observed each other. "What do you want? I said I was not to be disturbed."

The demon seemed nonchalant, whereas Clary was slightly nervous of his sudden anger spike, being unarmed, wounded and physically weaker. Now also slightly drunk from the drink he had given her to dull the pain. "Prince Jonathan requests that his whip be returned."

Clary's eyes moved over to settle on the whip that Jonathon had used to whip the Demon-Queen on the chessboard; the one that had the initials JCM. Of course, at the time she had seen it, she had assumed that it had belonged to her brother, as it was evidently 'M' for Morgenstern, but she was shocked to discover that her brother had even given Jace their surname as well as his own name. Moreover, despite everything that she had seen and heard Jace do during her imprisonment, she would never have guess that he owned a whip. She had even assumed that it too was made of demon-metal.

Slowly, Jonathon's eyes looked over to where the demon was standing and frowned. "And why does he request it? What gives him the idea that he is exempt from any order that I make? He has no power to request something from me."

The demon ignored what he could not answer. "He wishes to clean it himself and return it to the armoury."

He huffed irately. Clary closely watched him clenching and unclenching his fists that were dangling by his sides. "Fine," he said, waving towards where he had placed the whip on his cabinet. "Take it to him. When you hand it to him, make it known to him that he is to be accompanied by 10 soldiers until he leaves. Once he is done, send him to me." Jonathon looked back down towards Clary and considered her for a moment, his lip curling in distaste. "He is to leave _all_ his weapons - including his stele - in the armoury when he leaves. I'm not happy with him."

The demon merely nodded and walked into the room to collect the whip before leaving. Clary noticed how delicately he held it, careful not to like the coil to touch his uncovered arms, and she knew that it had been made from adamas. His whip was specially crafted to inflict the most amount of pain on demons, yet he didn't use it for its purpose and was likely never to. When had he even acquired such a weapon? All the time they were at the Institute together, she had never seen it.

Jonathon spat in disgust after the demon had left his room. He set the cup on his desk, and moved back to continue his stitching. "Anyway. I have to keep them separate from the rest of the court." He shrugged, as if it didn't matter. Perhaps it didn't. "I was _hoping_ that you could create runes whenever you wanted so that you might help them out. You see, they don't have much armour between them. And are only allowed one weapon of their choice. This army is mostly demon, therefore we don't have anyone to take care of an injured Shadowhunter. Jonathan and I won't have any time to do it – and you're not allowed to either." He rhythmically tapped his fingers on the rim of the cup, looking at her pleasantly. "It'd be _such a shame_ if all those good people died on the front because one of their own people – someone more angel than them – didn't want to help them preserve their lives." He smiled wickedly.


	7. Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarissa is let out of Morgenstern Manor for the first time since she had arrived. Her task is to run the perimeter of her brother's kingdom - and, hopefully, to escape.

_"Dominance. Control. These things the unjust seek most of all. And so it is the duty of the just to deft dominance and to challenge control."_

* * *

"Is your training always this sadistic, brother? Or do we only engage in fair hand-to-hand combat on Sundays?"

The dogs were tugging on their leashes in his hands, growling and biting as close to her legs as they could get. They were much larger than the usual mutts she had occasionally seen on the streets of New York in the dodgier back alleys, and, of course, more hellish looking. Clary supposed that, when stood on their hind legs, which they were occasionally doing in their excitement to get closer to her, they were taller than her 5ft 5" frame; still, her brother was able to control them with ease.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes as if she was being silly. His silly little sister, afraid of his normal, mild, friendly angelic pets. _How sweet_. "Clarissa. This is supposed to prepare you for war," he said consolingly. "It allows the hounds to understand and become familiar with you. Besides, you told me that you could do this."

"I said that I was _healed,_ Jonathon - not that I was able to outrun five of your favourite hellhounds across the plains of Idris," she said, frustrated.

Nevertheless, she was glad to be outside after almost two months under rigorous training, dinners, meetings, constant surveillance and paranoia, as well as having to attend classes with Jace where her brother taught them all the theories their father put forward and more.

The underlying fact was, after all, that his three prized experiments were all sitting together with their different talents and personalities and aiding the achievement of a common goal. Not quite the same goal that their father had started and hoped that one of them would continue, but it shared a common factor of domination over "regular" Shadowhunters.

Jace, during these lessons, listened with rapture – as if he had never heard Jonathon mention any of the things that he did before. The more the lessons continued, and the more he played her brother's favourite, the more disgusted she became with him and the harder it became for her to disguise it. Especially when Jace was continuing to wholeheartedly agree as Jonathon explained to her that they were no more related than cousins, seeing as they had added blood from completely different species. It mixed together, he said, and it diluted the blood of the Morgenstern's. She knew it was his way of persuading her into his incestuous plans; if he could make Jace believe it, he probably thought he could make her believe it.

She also knew that Jonathon had caught her giving him unimpressed and repulsed looks on more than one occasion, though, strangely, he had never said anything about it. He had let Jace continue on whatever he was saying, and then moved on. He didn't say anything to her about them when they were alone, and she doubted – though she couldn't be sure, as Jace had remained as displeased with her presence in the manor since she arrived – that he had said anything to him.

However, more importantly, Jonathon was letting her do this run unaided. Jace was upon his great beast of a warhorse, made of the same dark viscous substance as the hellhounds, with his only job to patrol the sector of Idris that wasn't ravaged by war to check that there weren't any groups of rebels or traps nearby. He had already left. This was her chance to escape if she could somehow ditch the hellhounds that were going to be on her trail.

She was going to be free of this dammed nightmare.

He became irritated. "If you had created a rune to make it as good and strong as it was before you were attacked like I told you to, then we wouldn't have had to wait this long and I would've let you out of the manor earlier and you would've met the Shadowhunter battalion – and more importantly, _you wouldn't have to do this."_

Of course Clary had accepted the position of the General of the Shadowhunter battalion. She needed to see who had joined, how they were being treated and whether they had, in actual fact, been forced into fighting for her brother or not. For a few days after her acceptance, he had left her so that she could rest; however, after that, he had constantly pressured her into showing him the creation of a new rune. And creating a rune to heal herself wasn't the only example he had used to try and convince her to show him; he had even at one point, found a rebel Shadowhunter and used the very mutts in front of her to tear her to pieces. If Clary closed her eyes, she could see the girl perfectly, still whole and scared before the dogs were unleashed.

She had continued to refuse. Jonathon not knowing whether she could or could not create runes was the only piece of information that she had and he did not, and she wasn't about to let go of it easily. Even for the life of _one other_ Shadowhunter.

This was war.

"No," she said. "I'll run it."

"Good." Jonathon smiled. "I expect you to be back here by evening." He fiddled with the dog's leashes, causing them to become even more excited. He looked at her curiously. "Are you not going to get into a running position? Has your training at the New York Institute been _that_ lacking?"

She scowled. "Am I not going to be given any weapons?" Clary eyed the two seraph blades strapped across his back and the multiple daggers that were hidden under his clothes.

"Why do you need weapons?" He looked down at his mutts with some level of affection as they lunged for Clary's ankles, snapping their powerful jaws. "They aren't going to hurt you. You don't need to defend yourself. Or kill them. That isn't part of the exercise."

Clary ground her teeth together. "What about a stele? For speed or – stamina."

He looked at her carefully. "This training is to be done without the use of runes. I want to see what your true abilities are. If you fall or are caught or give up, then I'm taking you back to the Manor and we'll train harder until you _are_ strong again." Jonathon smirked secretively. "Besides, I'm not stupid, Clarissa, whatever you may think of me. Do you really think I'd give you an opportunity to escape? _Please_."

"You want me back here by evening and you _won't give me a stele for speed?"_ She was so furious she made a noise mixed between a grunt and a snort. "Do you know how long it takes to run the perimeter of your kingdom? I don't even know where your land starts or ends."

He smiled. "Yes. I do. I've ran it and so has Jonathan and every Shadowhunter in your command has run it at least twice. _You_ haven't run it, so you're the one who doesn't know how long it takes. And trust me, my dear, you'll know when you reach the border. It's time you learn how powerful we really are."

" _Jonathon-"_

"Clarissa, O my lovely, you're only wasting time arguing with me about this. Morning is wearing on and on. It's almost noon." He sighed playfully and rolled his neck. "Okay, fine. You want something to spur you on when you're losing energy? Just remember that you don't know who I have in my possession, and your prompt return is key to their survival. Besides, you wouldn't want to be out here in the dark…there's more than territorial Downworlders within the sector."

"You think I'm afraid of some Downworlders?"

Jonathon only grinned and released the hounds from their restraints without so much as a word of warning. Almost instantly they were crashing into Clary, trying to trap her and knock her over, and tearing at her Shadowhunter gear as she instinctively started running, too afraid to curse her brother and his kingdom or think about the direction she was travelling in. In the back of her mind, she registered her brother laughing to himself and calling for her to hurry back home.

The dogs were at her heels – close to her, nipping at her ankles when they had the chance – but she was always seconds ahead. They were careful not to be hit every time she picked up her legs, and Clary was careful never to look back and slow, otherwise she'd be dragged back to the manor and placed in the training room for another 12 hours. She couldn't fight them. She knew that; there were too many and she was unarmed. Her only hope was in outrunning them, but however much her angelic blood aided her speed and stamina, the hellhounds were as fast – and, probably, were only conserving their energy for later, when she begins to tire.

So Clary ran. And when she began to gain a pain in her chest, she continued to run; when she stumbled over a rock, she pushed herself to run faster to make up for the precious seconds that it took to recover; and when oxygen seemed to be in short supply, she gulped down as much air as she could, but never stopped running. Clary was so busy running to stay alive, she almost didn't notice that she was currently running across Brocelind Plains, and, she realised as she took in her surroundings, the river on the horizon must be the one that led to Lake Lyn or to the heart of Alicante, depending on which way she was travelling.

She increased her speed as she realised that she could escape into Alicante, and sharply turned towards a nearby cluster of trees, somewhere in between the river and Idris' mountain range. Clary didn't have much time to scan the trees before her and choose an appropriate one to scout from, so the first one she saw with low enough branches that she could swing herself onto, she seized her only chance.

Of course, the branch was so low that it meant that as Clary was dangling from it, the hounds gathered beneath her and locked their jaws around her feet, tearing her gear apart – and when they reached her skin, tearing that apart too. She tried to shake them off her legs as she tried to gain enough momentum to swing herself onto the top of the bough, but as hard as she tried to, the hounds only succeeded in causing her to lose her grip. Before she completely slipped off, Clary pulled herself back up and kicked the hound hanging onto her right leg in the face.

It finally let go, tearing a piece of flesh off as it fell to the floor. Clary cried in agony, but knew she could waste no time assessing the extent of the damage done; quickly, she scrambled on top of the bough before they began a new attack. Once on top, she watched as the mutts only circled the tree, always watching where she was, and patiently waited for her to fall back into their pack. She spat at them.

Paranoid that they'd find a way to reach her, Clary climbed up into the canopy of the tree and peered out of the leaves to survey her landscape. She looked to the left and noted the positioning of Morgenstern Manor among the forest of Brocelind Forest in comparison to where she as now. More or less, she had run in a complete straight line from where she started.

Next, over to her right, she could see the abandoned city of Alicante. She knew that the demon towers were obviously no longer working, but before she was captured by Jonathon's army, she had heard of a faction of rebel Shadowhunters hiding in the capital. If she could reach them, she would once again be free from his orders – and they could kill those godforsaken dogs that were trailing her. _Weapons_. _They would have their own weapons,_ Clary remembered wistfully.

But, when Clary looked further than her own selfish desires, she realised that the part of Alicante she was eagerly looking at was untouched by the raging fires that encompassed the majority of the city. With a sinking feeling, Clary knew that there would be no Shadowhunters there that she could escape to; they would've all been smoked out or died in the fire – that is, if any were left within the city when Jonathon's army claimed a section of it. And, as she turned her head to look at the rest of the Shadowhunter's homeland, she registered more and more fires sweeping across parts of the land, particularly in Brocelind Forest, where fire spread easier. Flaming fields across half of Idris contrasted against the peaceful plains of Jonathon's kingdom made it all surprisingly clear where his land ended and were the free country began. And, as he wanted, Clary _did_ see how powerful his army was, and how unlikely it is was that the Shadowhunters were ever going to get back all the land that was stolen from them. A little more than half of Idris was under the demon's control.

Suddenly she understood that even if she escaped Jonathon's poisoned land, she'd never be as free as she once was, and she'd probably never find another Shadowhunter to join forces with. Clary recognised that they couldn't all be dead yet, and that they wouldn't have just abandoned their own country, since Jonathon was still sending soldiers out to fight his battles. They were all in hiding.

She knew that their best hope of survival now was if they stayed in hiding, somewhere she didn't know, until she found a way to overthrow the king.

For now, she had decided that she needed to return to Morgenstern Manor. There was no way she was going to be able to stop this reign of destruction without being within their stronghold, without having weapons, and with no treatment for her injured foot. Moreover, the Shadowhunters that were under Jonathon's rule needed her protection and training; they would be where the rebellion started.

She tightened her shoes in an attempt to quell the blood flow, and looked down to the forest floor to see where the dogs were. She was surprised to see that they had vanished, but she wasn't as naïve to think that they had gotten bored and left her alone. They were most likely waiting for her to drop back down to the floor. Clary gritted her teeth; it was getting late and she needed to continue on her journey, not matter whether she knew where the mutts were hiding or not.

She leapt from her current branch to a lower one on the tree in front, which was at the front of the huddle of trees. Once she balanced herself, she climbed even lower down the tree until the distance between her bough and the ground wasn't particularly great. Then, she carefully began moving towards the end of the branch, pushing herself off when she could go no further forward and hit the ground running. Clary didn't have time to look around her to see what direction the hellhounds were coming in – their barks and whines sounded from all around her – and so she continued to move in the direction of the river and followed it north into Alicante.

* * *

Alicante was in ruins. Clary didn't spend long within the city, especially since all the rubble and collapsing buildings made it difficult to gain distance on the dogs – they knew the city better than she did, and repeatedly blocked her exit by taking shortcuts down paths and alleyways.

Once out of the city, she ran back in the direction of the river. She knew there had been heavy rain a few weeks ago, and the rivers were still running fast and high from it; it hadn't taken Clary long to decide that she needed to cross it to lose the hounds. The water was angelic – it ran from the Lake Lyn, where the Angel Raziel had first appeared to Jonathan Shadowhunter – which meant that there was a good chance that something that came straight out of hell would be unable to cross it. It wasn't exactly heavenly fire or adamas, she knew, but she had to have hope that it was enough.

It was cold, and fast-flowing, pushing her further down the river in the direction of the lake and pulling her under when her feet began entangled in rubbish at the bottom. Clary was sure that there were several bodies under the water – and even more so because she had accidentally touched one – but she didn't like to think about how the murdered Shadowhunters weren't even being burned, as was their tradition. They were being dumped into the river that connected to the place where they had originated, as if they were nothing. It took strenuous energy, but Clary finally managed to find a tree to grab onto to stop herself from being taken by the current and hoist herself back onto dry land.

She sat on the riverbank and watched the hellhounds opposite the river whine and bark, pacing the length of the running water, not sure how to cross it. Clary knew she hadn't won, that she'd have to cross back over the river after a few miles to avoid crossing into the Shadowhunter's land and being caught up in their battles, but she smiled to herself. For now, the dogs were blocked by a river and she'd have time to rest.

* * *

The dogs followed her as she followed the river, until it curved, and it had suddenly seemed to dawn on the mutts that she was going to follow it all the way to Lake Lyn. They ran so far ahead of her that they eventually vanished from her sight, and Clary knew that they were planning to reach the lake before she did and run its circumference to reach the same side of the river that she was on. Clary picked up her own speed for another few miles, before deciding that it was time to cross back over and once again put a lake in between herself and the hounds.

All she had to do was reach Lake Lyn and then she could return to the Manor. The sun was only beginning to set; she felt that she had enough time.

* * *

When she reached Lake Lyn, she froze.

Clary was panting hard; she was sure that he heard her arrive and could see her easily, unhidden as she was my foliage, but she stood as still as an animal might in the face of its predator.

She stepped forward. _Maybe this was her chance_ , she thought. _To speak to him away from Jonathon's influence._

He was watching her from his side of the lake, unmoving and emotionless. A few feet away from him, his warhorse was grazing amongst the trees of Brocelind Forest, and most likely on the other side of the river now, the hellhounds were running towards Alicante, looking for Clary. They had passed him without so much as a sniff, too focused on claiming their kill than to greet one of their masters.

"Ja- _Jonathan,"_ she called. "Aren't you supposed to be back at the Manor?"

He looked as if he heard her, but she couldn't be sure. He stood up from his crouched position beside the lake and watched her as she made her way over to him. Jonathan knew that he couldn't leave, that his job was to guide her the rest of the way back home – Jonathon knowing that she was going to have more trouble with the hellhounds than they usually caused, meaning that she'd only barely make it back before evening and need protecting from the Downworlders – but Jonathan didn't want her to talk to him.

Not yet, at least. Perhaps after a year or so he would, when he felt that she finally understood.

He called the Steed of Abigor to him, a gift from his brother. Technically, it still belonged to Eligos, but Jonathon was king and so was allowed to claim or "borrow" someone else's possession whenever he liked, and distribute it to whoever – moreover, Eligos wasn't even currently within the boundaries of Jonathon's kingdom. He was away, rallying even more support from Edom and from the Shadowhunters in what they liked to call the "free land". Therefore, Eligos didn't know he was using his prised stallion – and Jonathan prayed that it would stay that way, not wanting to be beaten again by the demon – but only a beast such as this would be useful to take for this mission.

He climbed atop the hellish beast as she came into closer view, partially hidden behind trees.

"Jonathan?" She repeated. "What are you doing here?"

He forced a smile. "Paying my respects," he said.

Clary didn't know whether he was referring to himself, when he was murdered here by Valentine Morgenstern, or whether he was, in fact, talking about Valentine's death. She still wasn't sure where he stood in the war – whether it was on her side or her brothers, or even if he was playing the both of them and biding his time until he ended the line of Morgenstern's, ridding the world of Valentine's awful experiments before they did anything worse.

She nodded her head thoughtfully, analysing his appearance. He _seemed_ completely fine and unhurt.

"We need to get moving, it's almost evening," he said conversationally, unafraid as he moved his horse through the darkening forest. "The Downworlders in this part haven't been fed in a while. The vampires don't need blood any more than Mundanes need wine, but they still kick up an unnecessary fuss about it all."

Clary knew then that Jonathon had never expected her to finish on time, or even made it unaided through the rest of the Brocelind Forest. She was furious at his lack of faith, to say the least, but more so curious about why he was allowing the Downworlders in his kingdom to go without food for a "while", when he always made sure that the rest of his court of were excessively fed, building them up for war. But, moreover, why there were Downworlders on his side of the land – was Jonathon not just renovating Idris so that it accommodated demons?

Before Clary could ask Jonathan anything, he kicked his warhorse into a gallop and tiredly urged her to hurry up. He rode ahead of her, leading the way back to the manor, too far in front for him to hear anything she might say.

* * *

Once they came into the manor's grounds, Jonathan left to leave his stallion in the stables, while Clary ran with the last of her strength to the front of the house to show Jonathon that she was here before he decided to kill one of his soldiers. The sun was almost set, painting the sky a bloody red.

There was no one on the front grounds, so she continued to march in through the front doors and found Jonathon lounging upon his throne, a goblet of red wine loosely held in his hand. He had once again donned his crown, which had been missing from his head when he sent her on her journey in the morning, and had decorated himself in some of his finest robes that were only ever worn during celebrations. To her surprise, Jonathan had already made it inside and stood loyally, as he always was, on the right hand of the king's throne. He too had been given a small crown and dressed in finery, not nearly as expensive as the king's, of course, and was still made to be more armour than robes, so that he could serve purpose as the royal guard.

Clary wondered what he was celebrating this time.

Jonathon smiled. "In the nick of time, sweet sister," he said. He looked to where some of his demons had restrained a Shadowhunter, to the far left of the chamber, so tucked away that Clary hadn't noticed they were there when she arrived. "You're lucky, Shadowhunter, that my heir was able to save your life. Take him away." He waved the demons away, and the Shadowhunter, sobbing with gratuity and fear, was dragged along with them. His gazed followed them out, before they fixed back onto her. "C'mere, Clarissa," he said softly, beckoning her to his side.

Stiffly, she walked towards him, careful not to limp or show any sign of being injured by his hounds. When she neared, he stood and gently took her hand, standing her next to him, overlooking the chamber as he called in the Shadowhunter battalion.

Uniformly, they marched into the chamber in a single file that split into four separate rows. They waited until every member of the battalion was in position before kneeling in front of their rulers and laying their seraph blades across their knees. Their heads were bent in submission.

"Meet your army," he told her quietly. "My gift to you, just as I promised."

Clary's eyes frantically searched the faces of the Shadowhunters before her from atop the dais, seeking out anyone that she may have known or knew whilst on the run. Anyone who looked to have been abused and tortured into joining this madness.

She could see nothing. No tremble as what happened with Jonathan sometimes, or fading cuts and bruises that were expected to be seen on a prisoner. They were all devoted.

"Shadowhunters," Jonathon announced in a loud voice, looking smug as he paced before each Shadowhunter, immersing himself within them, tempting them to try kill him. It wasn't hard for anyone to see that he believed that they would never touch him. "My heir, my…Clarissa – your princess – will be your new general. She will train you for the upcoming battles, for the nearing war. She will push you and command you until you are all part of a war-winning machine, and begin to re-unite you from the losses that you have suffered within your battalion these past few months. Clarissa will – well, Clarissa, do you have anything to say to your new command?"

Clary was speechless; she couldn't quite get over their devotion to the tyrant. "I…err," she began. Jonathon laughed mockingly, causing her ire to rise. Irritated by her brother's attempts to belittle her, Clary started her speech again. "I won't stop, I promise you, my Shadowhunters, until we overthrow the enemy. Until the country of Idris is under the control of those it belongs to. We will defeat them, Shadowhunters. We will defeat them."

Again, Clary wasn't so naïve as to think that her brother didn't know who she spoke of, but he continued to laugh delightfully throughout it all and didn't attempt to stop her in her tracks for hinting at treason. The Shadowhunters on the floor were cheering her, obviously misinterpreting what she was threatening to crush. Jonathon kissed her on the cheek jovially. "Well done, little sister. You've impressed me today," he whispered in her ear. She could feel his smirk against her skin. "You're turning into an excellent queen."

He pulled away and called for his demons to organise a feast for his Shadowhunters and siblings.

* * *


	8. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathon shows Clarissa precisely what might happen if she continues to be disobedient. Though, as Clarissa discovers, not everything is as bad as it seems.

_"The greatest crimes in the world are not committed by people breaking the rules but by people following the rules."_

* * *

"Get up," he uttered. Sweat dripped down his face, but he didn't give off even a distinct impression of tiredness. The look in his _eyes_ \- Clary couldn't help but think that he was getting off on her constant defeat. He sniffed, wiping the sweat off his face. "Again. Do it again. You're doing better, you're getting closer."

In any case, she couldn't get herself back up. She was done. She didn't want to fight and she didn't want to be humiliated again. This had been going on for nigh on 14 hours, non-stop, without any breaks for food or water or to take a breather. For 14 hours, Clary was pushed and pushed to land a blow on her brother. But she couldn't. He was untouchable. Which made his incessant mocking about the New York Institute and her repeated failures - knowing that if she couldn't do this exercise, she'd never get close enough to the king to kill him - unbearable. A part of Clary believed that he had become this intolerable because she had kept her hellhound injury from him.

"No," she said, her words muffled by her arm. "I'm done, Jonathon. I want to go back to my room. I want to sleep."

"You can sleep when you're dead," he said, brushing her comments off. He paced around the ring that they were fighting in, restless now that they had stopped. "Come on, Clarissa. Get up."

"I don't want to continue," she said.

"No. Get up," he pressed. "Finish training. Don't be weak."

"Fuck off," she cried. She still lay on the ground. "I'm done." She hadn't sworn at her brother since she had first shown up at his palace. She had learnt her place quickly then without realising, but she couldn't take his incessant pushing anymore.

She hadn't even been actively fighting him since taking over the battalion; Clary had been taking orders from him instead.

"Those aren't the kind of words a princess should be using," he reprimanded, his voice growing with each word. "And they most definitely aren't the sort of words used against your brother _or your king_!"

She snorted into the crook of her arm.

He stomped over to where she lay on the ground. "Now get _up_!"

"No," she whispered gleefully, overcome with excitement from riling up her brother. Clary forgot why she had ever stopped defying his corrupt rule. "You're not the king."

Clary couldn't see him, but she could feel aggressive energy pulse around her. He wanted to hurt her. _Let him,_ Clary thought. She still had her blade near her; if he came over to wrestle her to her feet, she'd stab him through the heart.

As if sensing her murderous plans, Jonathon quickly changed direction and stalked away from her. "Jonathan," he growled. "Bring out the prisoners. All of them."

Jace noticeably paled. He looked to Clary on the floor with hard eyes, her hand so near her blade. "But-"

"Jonathan," he fumed. "I hope to the Angel that you're not mimicking her insolence."

"No, Brother," he said carefully. "I'll go now."

"Good." His lip curled. "Bring them to the throne room."

Her stomach dropped. She had forgotten that his pet was still with them - and even that he could still hurt those who she was supposed to be protecting while staying in his palace.

Jace left the training room swiftly, taking a few of the demon guards with him as back up – or maybe because there were more prisoners than Clary expected. She only really thought about Jonathon only having the bare minimum when it came to prisoners – she didn't think he had any space within this manor to keep them _and_ his court - but she also had seen the sheer number of Shadowhunters that had joined his battalion. She didn't know what he'd do with such a number of prisoners; why would he keep them, and use his resources to keep them alive _as_ prisoners, when he had such a penchant for killing his opposition?

"One last chance, Clarissa," he said. "Get up, and we'll put all of this behind us."

She gritted her teeth together and tried to push herself up from the floor. Spasms wracked her arms and legs and cramps contracted in her arms and legs; Clary tried to stop herself from screaming out in pain. Any leftover strength she had was useless and futile. As much as she tried, she could not stand up as her brother wanted. Her muscles were too sore and overused, and lacked the amount of strength that she needed to move.

Tears welled in her eyes; she had successfully rebelled against her brother by denying his requests, but at what cost? She was now endangering her fellow rebels all because she had wanted to be defiant. She didn't even know who he had in his possession.

"I can't," she whispered. "Jonathon, please. _I can't."_

He shook his head, moving around her. He kicked her seraph blade away from her, to the opposite end of the room, sneering as she scrambled to grab it while it was still within her reach. "You expect me to believe that?" Jonathon scoffed. "Nice try, Sister." He moved over to wear he had hung his cloak and deposited his crown while he trained her, and donned them in preparation for greeting his prisoners. "I thought you had learnt not to disobey your superior," he said ponderingly, as if he couldn't quite work out how he had made the mistake of not realising that she was only biding her time. "Don't let there be a next time, otherwise I'll be forced to make _you_ my new personal prisoner. Maybe then you'll learn," he said darkly.

Clary was silent, quietly sobbing into her arms.

Jonathon looked to the last of his demon guard by the door, and said, "Get her on her feet."

She was pulled to her quivering legs, too weak to escape their grasps. She almost sunk to her knees, the muscles in her legs too weak to support her weight, but she was held up by their strong grips.

Clary imagined she looked pathetic.

Jonathon walked over to her, her own crown in his hand, and she numbly watched as he settled it into her curls. He then proceeded to wipe her tears away with his thumb, with a disconcerting amount of gentleness.

She never hated him more than when he was tender. It made him human.

He spoke to her soothingly and with a hint of apology: "Clarissa, my sweet. If you're going to be queen, you need to see how your actions affect others. This game is about making the right choices." He caressed her cheek and tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

His actions at that moment were far too intimate to be considered brotherly, but she contemplated idea that the actions would be vaguely similar if Jonathon did not have such an incestuous desire and was raised _as_ her brother.

"You do understand that I have to do this, don't you?" He said gently, still caressing her cheek. "If there was any other way…" He breathed in deeply, as if it pained him to consider any of it.

He was a good actor, Clary had to admit; under any other circumstances – if she was still oblivious to his demonic, psychopathic nature – she would've believed that he didn't want this done.

His voice grew harder, convinced in his own opinion: "You have to learn one way or another. When you do, it'll stop. It'll all stop."

"Oh, I bet that's what you say to all your prisoners," she sneered. Clary didn't suppose that she could make it any worse than it already was.

His hand stopped its movements and he looked at her curiously, smirking. "Perhaps," he said nonchalantly. He softly kissed her on the cheek, then walked away without another glance at her. He headed for the door to exit the training room. "Come, Sister. Let's see the fruits of my labour."

* * *

They set Clary down outside the chamber door, and moved behind Jonathon once again to take up their place as his royal guard. She was still shaky on her legs, but her brother supported her with an arm around her waist, as he moved purposely into the room.

There were around twenty prisoners lined up and kneeling before the dais on which the two thrones sat. They had been split into five rows, with 4 Shadowhunters – and perhaps some Downworlders – in each; each prisoner had their own guard. Either they were unimaginably dangerous - which would've been surprising considering the state that most of them were in – or her brother was more paranoid than she had believed. She was glad that she didn't recognise any as she was guided past them and – guiltily – sat onto her throne.

Her chair was usually cold and hard, making sitting in it whenever Jonathon requested it an uncomfortable affair; however, being forced to look at what he referred to as the "fruits of his labour", made it worse. Her crown fit perfectly, unlike her brother's, and when Jonathon requested that she wore it, she did so without much complaint. It wasn't heavy; as a matter of fact, it felt no heavier than a daisy chain that she'd make with her mother when she was a child. Now, it felt like the weight of the world was on top of her skull.

She wondered whether Jonathon's crown ever felt heavy. Was it a burden to have to constantly balance it atop his head? More so, she was curious as to why he didn't have it fitted if he knew that it was loose.

Jonathon grinned largely at his audience. "Guests," he addressed them. "I thank you for meeting with me and my sister, Clarissa Morgenstern, Princess of Idris."

Clary easily noticed that he purposely left out Jace's name. Did he know? Did he _care?_ She looked to him on the floor, standing next to a prisoner who had recently had their black hair shaved off. They were positioned slightly away from the other ranks. His eyes were fixed to the ground; he seemed impassive.

"Today, my friends, is the day in which judgement will be passed. My dear sister believes you all to be under protection – under her own ownership, if you will. Well, if you are truly under her ownership, then it is only her that can command and decide what happens to any of you." He leapt to his feet, pushing up suddenly from his seat. He paced along the edge of the dais, like a tiger trapped in a cage. "As it so happens, she is wrong. You ultimately belong to me - even _she_ belongs to me. Everything within my kingdom belongs to me. Lake Lyn, the trees, the people." He paused, smiling charmingly at his prisoners again. "However, I am nothing if not benevolent, and I shall humour her." He turned to her and gestured for her to join him.

Slowly, Clary stood and wobbled over to him. Before she had time to recoil, he took her hand and pulled her to stand in front of him. She felt his hands skirt around her waist, considering what he wanted to do, but he decided to put them on her shoulders.

"Well, well, my dear. Take a good look at each of them. _Your_ prisoners." His hand swept before them. "Look carefully, make your judgements."

Clary didn't need to be told; she had already seen them when she walked in. Nevertheless, Jonathon forced her head to look, the platform giving her a better view of it all.

Firstly, she was glad to see that there were no children included in his selection, but she knew that didn't mean that there never _were_ children. She didn't imagine that they would've lasted as long under his care.

Some of the prisoners, which Clary assumed to be (if he had any) some of Jonathon's favourites, were dressed in plain clothes that had minimal tearing, blood stains or other some such. The clothes didn't fit the prisoners perfectly – in most cases, they were too baggy on the person, but she wasn't surprised – and were made to cover the arms and legs. She supposed it was so that the more major wounds were hidden. Yet, these particular prisoners didn't look as hollow and pale as some of the others; their hair wasn't as matted, but had instead been cut short, and they lacked the tremor that a few possessed.

The same tremor that Jace sometimes showed.

Subconsciously, Clary decided that she liked those particular prisoners the least. They were the ones that were being groomed to join his court, she knew - the newest members of the Shadowhunter battalion usually had short hair. These prisoners were close to breaking or had already broken.

"Do you need a closer look?" He asked.

Clary shook her head.

She felt his chest vibrate with contained laughter. "Have I left you speechless? My, that's a first."

"Well."

He seemed to have grown bored. He guided her down steps off the dais, stopping in front of the first row of prisoners. She never registered the absolute stench until then. "Now, have you definitely had a good look at them, my princess? You hold their lives in your small hands, after all."

"What?" Clary choked. He couldn't possibly be implying what she thought.

He faked a chuckle. "Oh, it's not as bad as you think, Sister. There's no need to be melodramatic about it all." He waved his hand.

" _Jonathon-"_

"Clarissa, my sweet, I want you to do three things for me. Only three. No more and no less." Pause. "I want you to choose one of these lovely fighters to save. Only one."

She choked on her breath. _Save?_ She never imagined that she would've gotten such an opportunity from Jonathon. She couldn't believe it. Yet, she realised that this was only the first instruction; they couldn't all possibly be as simple and easy as the first.

"One?" She enquired. "Just one?" She wanted to save them all, but she knew that this was too good to start a fight over. She had to be quick before he changed his mind.

" _One_ ," he confirmed.

One out of the twenty before her. Clary moved away from her brother's grip and walked in between the rows, surveying the prisoners. She wanted to make the right choice, exactly what Jonathon said it was all about; she wasn't going to choose one of the groomed prisoners. Her brother strutted after her, regarding everyone with a mild look of disgust.

She looked at everyone carefully, trying to see the extent of their pain in their faces, trying to see if she could work out anything about this particular prisoner's life. None of them met her eye. Until she reached the last row.

This particular prisoner's eyes were dead, but they were the first one to hold her stare. She enjoyed that they weren't quite as broken as the others. Their eyes were a dark brown and stared at her with such intensity that it was almost as he didn't want to be saved – at least, not by her. _She_ too was the traitor in their eyes; it was no longer just Jace.

His mouth was set in a thin snarl. He trembled, but not in fear. Jonathon pulled her a step back from him; she had gotten too close.

"Him," Clary whispered, sure in her decision. She needed his fury to be set to rallying up the last of the Shadowhunters in the free land instead of being contained in a dank prison cell. She needed someone who had yet to be broken. "Him. I want him released."

His demon guard pulled him to his feet. He stood strong, easily towering over Clary, but Jonathon was still taller. "What's your name?" Jonathon asked, looking at him critically. A demon handed him a clipboard of documents, which he paged through.

"1B-532," he grunted, his voice hoarse from disuse. Clary barely heard him.

Jonathon flicked to the appropriate page. "Ah. Rinaldo Vinci. From the Florence Institute." He looked at him appraisingly. "Found on the outskirts of my territory by Lake Lyn, he was believed to be trying to summon the Angel Raziel. Two fellow, unarmed rebellion members had been murdered on the shores, hours before we found him. They were believed to be his work. He later admitted to throwing another body into the Lake." Jonathon waved him away and the demon dragged his hulking body out of the chamber and, presumably, back to the edge of his territory. He smirked. "Good choice, Little Sister. He has potential."

Jonathon clearly thought that she had made a bad choice, but Clary wasn't quite so sure. Yes, he had murdered his friends to summon an angel from the lake, but if it had _worked_ – wouldn't that be the best way to kill her brother? If she could have one wish, any wish, she would destroy this place.

Nevertheless, she had made their choice, and now they were one prisoner down. She was helping.

"Now, I want you to choose someone to protect the one you saved. Granted, with the one you chose, they might not last long if he still has plans for a summoning." He hummed with amusement. "This is getting fun now, isn't it?"

This one was easy for Clary; she went back to the third row, where she had seen the bulkiest man she had ever set eyes on. He must've been recently captured, she reasoned; his clothes had been torn and fresh scars were apparent on his face, but he didn't appear to have lost any – or much – muscle. This man could hold his own if worse came to worse and Rinaldo Vinci decided to perform another blood sacrifice, but he'd also be efficient at fighting off Jonathon's soldiers. Clary couldn't begin to imagine how he had even been captured.

"This one," Clary said simply.

"Name?" Jonathon lazily asked.

"1B – 743," he replied. Clary wondered how they were classified. Had there at one point been more than 700 prisoners?

"Lazar Thacker. From the Belgrade Institute. Good match, Clarissa." He smiled. "Lazar here was brought in when he was found within my territory, drunk. He and his friends had discovered the home of the Shadowhunter Battalion in the early morning, and broke in when they would've been resting. A brawl began. Luckily, Jonathan was there and alerted the guards to the intrusion. By the time back up arrived, Lazar was found mounting one of the Shadowhunter women, his men guarding him as he defiled her."

Jonathon waved that prisoner away too, not giving Clary a chance to change her mind. With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her to the end of the row and then over to where Jace was standing with his own prisoner.

Jace bowed his head.

"I'm surprised you haven't come over to look at this one yet, Sister," Jonathon said, smirking.

Clary's eyes narrowed at the prisoner. He was nothing special, albeit one of Jonathon's more favoured ones. He cheeks were hollow and his skin had a slight sallow complexion, but his body didn't look broken. She could see part of an Iratze rune on his neck, partially covered by his shirt's collar. "Why?" She supposed he was going to belittle her; perhaps this Shadowhunter was the one out of the pack that had committed the worst crime.

He frowned. "You don't know this one? I was led to believe that you did. Jonathan, show her his face."

Jace complied.

He had a few, thin scars on his face, but nothing that damaged his overall complexion. He would've been pretty in any other world, where he wasn't beaten and underfed. Like every other prisoner, his blue eyes were dead. Whoever he was, she didn't understand why Jonathon was under the impression that she knew this man. Whoever that was, he was unrecognisable.

"Well?" He prompted.

Her eyebrows drew together and she looked to her brother questioningly. Did it matter? Her eyes moved over to Jace; was he the one to tell him that she knew who this was? Was he going to get into trouble for lying to him? "No," she said.

Her brother seemed annoyed. "Name?" He asked the prisoner.

"1B-197," he rasped. He was quiet and sombre.

"Hm." Jonathon spent a long time looking at his details on his paper, occasionally taking a glance at Clary. She couldn't see what was written down. "One of the more recent prisoners," he confirmed. "Tried to murder your brother a few months back."

She knew he wasn't talking about himself, but she was curious as to why he didn't tell her his name this time. For now, until she got her hands on that document, she would only know this man as everyone else knew him – as prisoner 1B-197. The prisoner that she should've saved for being brave enough to try murder his rulers.

"Anyway, back to the game," he said, guiding her away from Jace. "It is time for the most exciting part. I want you to choose one to die."

Clary stopped walking from the bombshell, but she was only propelled forward by Jonathon. She knew that something bad was coming - that something bad _had_ to happen, because this life wasn't made of roses – but she never imagined that she would be forced to choose someone to die. She should've chose to kill the ones that she _saved_ to die.

"You won't kill them yourself, of course; after all, you were unable to move a few minutes ago, poor baby." He smiled widely, showing off his teeth that seemed too white and pure for his nature. He had a perverse sense of pleasure.

" _No_ ," she said.

"By the Angel, not this again. I thought you understood how to follow orders. You did the first two easily enough; how do you know that you haven't sent _them_ to their death?" He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, of course. You don't. I think I just discovered, my dear sister, that I finally have a reasonable amount of your trust. You trust me not to have just lied to you – manipulated you, for my…shall we say, sadistic desires? Hope and trust is important, Clarissa. I would like to think I have yours."

She swallowed thickly. "I don't have the power of gods, to choose who is to die and who is not. It is unjust," she reasoned.

"It is merciful. Death is the only place some of these people will stop suffering. Where they'll finally be at peace. Don't you want that for them?" His eyes hardened. "Some of these people have done extraordinarily corrupt things, as you have witnessed."

"Jonathon, I-"

"I would've killed Jonathan's prisoner to persuade you, darling, but it seems that you have no interest in him. His death would mean nothing now, since you don't recognise him, which would be unbeneficial for what he's worth."

Clary hadn't realised how important prisoner 1B-197 was until now, but she still couldn't help him.

"I'll make it easy for you, my sweet," he whispered. " _You_ choose someone to die, or _I'll_ choose someone." He grasped her wrist to keep her in place. "Perhaps I'll give the order to one of the prisoners instead."

"Anything else," she whispered back. "I'll do anything else. A rune – I'll give you a new rune. Like you wanted."

His eyes sparked with interest. He stood up to his full height, looking down at her cautiously. His fingers tapped against her wrist. "Any rune I wish? I know that you can create them on command."

She nodded once, ashamed to even look him in the eyes as she agreed to it. She had held out for so long, but this was it. She couldn't live with the thought of knowing the name, origin and the arrest details of a Shadowhunter she chose to murder. She was without luck in this court; it was likely that she would've chosen to kill the only decent prisoner there. "Yes."

He released her. Jonathon turned to order a demon to bring him pencils and a pad of paper. When he received it moments later, he handed it to her. "Draw a rune then," he said. "Show it to me."

"Without a stele? It won't work."

"You'll get a stele when I can trust you," he snapped. He called Jace over to them; another demon took his position. "I want an impervious rune. No more battlefield injuries."

Clary found comfort in the fact that he wasn't forcing her to create a rune to further harm those under his rule. She was more than happy to prevent her battalion from gaining injuries on the battlefield, but she ultimately knew that this would be the way that Jonathon would win the war. With untouchable Shadowhunters. Shadowhunter's that gained no injury.

She saw its shape in her mind, a collection of loops and swirls and thick strokes of a stele. She wished she had one.

Once the drawing was complete, Jonathon took it from her and observed it. She didn't suppose that he knew exactly what it meant, other than it being angelic, but perhaps he also trusted her now. "Good." He nodded, satisfied, and ordered the prisoners back to their cells. Jace seemed to have no comments, but he looked like a proud child when Jonathon congratulated him for passing on the useful information regarding her rune-creating ability. "I would've never imagined or known that she possessed this ability without you, Brother," he told him.

Jace was like putty in his hands.

He rolled up the sleeve on Jace's arm and handed her his own stele. "Draw it. _Exactly_ as your original."

Warily, she plucked the stele from his hand. Until then, she never realised how much she missed the feeling of that sort of power. She reached over and held Jace's wrist, angling his somewhat bare forearm to her and placing the tip of the stele to his skin. Before she began, she couldn't resist looking into his own dull eyes and contemplating creating another new rune, one to save him from his delusional mind and to repair whatever Jonathon had broken inside him.

Her nails dug into his skin with the thought, angry that it happened to him. She wondered how he had even been caught when they all knew how careful they had to be. She wondered how long it had taken until he reached this peace. How had her Jace - her beautiful Jace - been broken?

Nevertheless, however much she wanted to, she couldn't change the design of the rune when her brother ( _brothers?)_ and Jace were watching her draw it so intensely. She didn't want to think about what they would do to her if they watched her do a stroke out of place and change the meaning of the rune altogether. They, after all, had the original picture as reference.

She gritted her teeth and drew it, praying to the Angel that it did exactly what Jonathon wanted it to do. When she was done, he ceremoniously pulled a dagger from its holster and drew the metal down Jace's arm. He didn't even flinch, and to Clary's great relief, there was no blood or incision.

Smiling proudly, he pocketed his knife and released Jace. He leaned down and kissed Clary gently on the cheek, the first time he had ever done such a thing with brotherly affection. "We have a beautiful, clever little sister, Jonathan."

"The war will be over soon now," Jace commented as he and Clary followed Jonathon off the dais and out the chamber. "They can't win when we have resilient Shadowhunters. Right?"

He had such conviction and pride in his voice that she didn't think he needed their brother's confirmation.

"Soon. But we don't just want to _win_ or end this war. We want to crush the opposition. There'll be no place for rebellion in this new world." He shrugged non-committedly. "There's a reason to wait."

She could see that Jace was ready to ask another question - perhaps " _what_ " - but he stopped him without turning to look at him or hearing a single sound from his mouth.

"Not now, Jonathan."

* * *


	9. Resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After waking from a nightmare, Jonathan is called to see Jonathon as there is something that he wants to show him that could possibly change the war forever.

_"Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."_

* * *

 

The whip cracked; a sound that he both loved and feared.

The prisoner's body was shadowed in darkness but Jonathan could easily recognise the features, in a way that only befitted dreams, of someone he once knew.

His grip on the handle tightened as he prepared to flagellate the body again. Jonathan's body thrummed with life, with excitement at being able to exact punishment on someone who had ruined his life for so long. Someone who he had been dying to see again, since the first feelings of detestation – when he first _realised_ what this man had done - had festered into what they were now.

"You're bad, aren't you? _Evil_. Tell me you're bad, and all this can stop. Admit to all the wrongs you've done, all the harm to everyone's lives you've caused and all this pain and suffering will stop," the words all just spilled from his mouth without his realisation. He didn't know what he had recounted, but he felt that it was familiar. "Confess to me that what you're fighting for is evil, Jace."

 _Jace Herondale_.

Jonathan despised him.

The whip lashed out for the second time, creating a long, thin wound across his chest. It looked as though someone had painted a red stripe down his front. He was proud.

His elation was interrupted by a stinging sensation on his own chest. Jonathan looked down, confused, to see an identical red wound on his torso. He looked to Jace but knew that the boy didn't have any weapon of his own; he was defenceless, as he liked it. He was vaguely suspicious and aware that injury inflicted upon Jace was injury inflicted upon himself, but his odium for him was far too great to stop on a hunch.

Jonathan continued with the punishment; lash followed lash, the crack of his whip being sweet music to his ears, which only resulted in his own grunts of pain interrupting and ruining the melody as an area of sliced flesh appeared. With every new whip, the pain and damage increased tenfold until Jonathan was on the floor, bleeding out and screaming, as he was compelled to finish his task.

All of a sudden, Jonathan was awake and covered in a thin layer of sweat, curled in the foetal position. Phantom pains from old memories ran up and down his back, crippling his body until they passed. He lightly pressed his fingers to the scars, reminding himself, as he did every day, of these wounds that Jace Herondale had given and caused him. It prepared him for what may come today.

Jonathan dragged himself out of his bed, and moved to the large wardrobe that he had been allowed. His brother had told him to dress nicely today and that he was going to be shown something important - something life-changing - which would forever change the war and any war after.

He knew that by "nicely", Jonathon meant that he had to dress _like_ a prince. Weapons were to be left in his bedroom. His brother would be protecting him this time - or so he had said, but Jonathan trusted him.

He deposited his weapons on his bedside table, staring at them longingly for a few moments, before moving onto dressing himself. He thought he should wear saffron, but he had a strange feeling that bronze robes would be a better idea for what he might be shown, despite having as little information about it as he did. He buttoned his clock to the chin and pulled on his boots; he picked up his bronze crown from his bedside table and arranged it on his head, amongst his growing locks. After some deliberation, Jonathan sheathed a dagger and carefully hid it in the sleeves of his tunic; Jonathon could not find out that he had it.

As if some otherworldly force protected his sanity when he was inside his room, _she_ reappeared as soon as he left it. He tried to keep his eyes focused in front of him, his mind concentrating on the route he took every day to the soldier's dining room, but he could feel her presence drifting nearby. It was difficult to ignore usually – she liked to talk to him and make him feel guilty and accuse him of wretched things, but she didn't understand that he was no longer who she had thought him to be – but sometimes, when the Angel rewarded him, she was silent, only brooding in the background. This was one of those days, and Jonathan revelled in it.

It was a sign of victory.

As per usual, the stairways and hallways were busy with demon patrols and other members of the court milling about the manor aimlessly, waiting to be called by Jonathon to fight or for his own personal reasons. Some possessed the bodies of the servants that had previously been tending to this manor, or their own personal prisoners that they had beaten out on the field; others continued to stay in their corporeal form. Jonathan didn't know what the difference between being in possession of a human body and staying in their own corporeal form was in their own culture, but neither did he pretend to know. He suspected, however, that if anyone knew (other than the demons themselves), it was Jonathon, especially since he had the most contact with them out of any Shadowhunter or Downworlder under his roof. Was it important in his own dealings with them? Jonathan didn't think so, otherwise he _would_ know.

There were just as many women as there were male demons, Jonathan supposed – they didn't have gender stereotypes that seemed to only belong to Mundanes – all seemingly ageless, and willing to fight and return to The Void, for however many centuries until they are reformed again, in the name of their king whenever he asked of it. There were four or five different demon princesses and one or two princes – all Greater Demons that hulked around the place – but their titles were only of value in Edom and as long as they weren't there, and as long as they were bound in loyalty to Jonathon, then they could do no harm to him or overrule a decision made by him. They were little more than ambassadors in this reality – and even then, his brother hardly paid their advice attention. Before he arrived, however, Jonathan assumed that his brother had paid them more attention and given them more privileges than now, since he would've had to entrust his manor to them when he left for battle with his soldiers; now the king had him, he was sent out to fight in his stead while Jonathon looked after the manor and everyone within it. Sometimes, the heirs of Edom were ordered to join their own soldiers in battle, copying the example of himself – Jonathan had an inkling that this was only because Jonathon wanted to be rid of them. Maybe it'd work, eventually.

Nevertheless, he did know, that once or twice, his brother had used some of the royalty for his own personal pleasure – but who were any of them to complain or refute him? Practically everyone within his manor – including the Shadowhunter Battalion and (he suspected) Clarissa, as Jonathan did himself – would be pleased to be chosen by him. No one would be forced or abused, they all knew that - but a king like Jonathon virtually begged people to worship him in any way they could – and as any faithful servant, they were more than happy to.

They were dedicated to him - and that was what Jonathan liked about them all; they were a unit.

Jonathan arrived at the hall reserved for the soldiers to enjoy their daily meals when they were staying at the manor, prepared to eat his meal there as he did every day when he was not escorted down by Jonathon. The demons greeted him as pleasantly as demons could, recognising him as someone with superior authority over them as both their General and Prince, but they were also aware that he was nice and good to them; they were slightly more than comrades now, after being in charge of them for so long.

His brother didn't invite him to eat with him and Clarissa often, as he believed that dining with his own soldiers would be good for their comradeship – but that didn't seem to be a fair argument when it came to Clarissa. She could do what she wanted as far as Jonathon was concerned; dining with her own troops to build a sense of comradeship didn't seem to apply to her, no matter how much she needed to build it.

Jonathan _hated_ it. And he hated her.

She had arrived and taken everything that he once had for herself. Why should she be allowed to spend more time with their brother, of whom she hated, than he was? Jonathan had done everything that had been asked of him, and did whatever he could to please him of his own accord and even when he asked – _and yet who had replaced_ him _as next in line? Who_ got to be of his blood when she had no love or emotion other than hatred for their king? She didn't even want to be queen, or the Princess of Idris; all _she_ wanted was the destruction of Jonathon, himself and all the demons that were caught up within them. She didn't understand what they were doing for the Shadowhunters – but he did. Of course Jonathan did.

Nevertheless, today seemed to be one of the days that required his presence. Perhaps it had something to do with what Jonathon was wanting to show him today, but he wasn't one to pass up an opportunity to be around his own siblings and have a respite from the demons that he was usually surrounded by.

Clarissa was waiting for him on the soldier's hall, her face slightly wet from tears, but her mouth set in a firm line. He wondered why she had been crying. She seemed loathed to be there, waiting on him in a room of demons that had no respect for her, but Jonathan enjoyed the sight.

In this room, he was superior to her.

When she saw him, she walked quickly over, steering clear of a few demons that were reaching out to grab her, while the others only leered. "Jonathan," she said politely, forcing the words out from her mouth. This was something that he could grow to love and relish. "Our brother would enjoy your presence in our private rooms. He hopes that you would accept his invitation; he regrets not having you around more often." She cast her eyes to the ground. "He tells me that he has important business to discuss with you."

"And why has our brother sent you to relay this information?" Jonathan asked stiffly.

She smiled bitterly. "Regretfully, King Jonathon says that I am to receive breakfast in my chambers today. I believe this morning is for you two only."

Jonathan bowed his head politely. "You're upset," he commented. "Perhaps I can persuade our brother to allow you to join us. I'm sure he wouldn't mind; whatever he has to discuss, can wait."

Her smile twitched. She wanted to impose on them, he could see it very easily; oh how she wanted to know what evils they were planning now. With difficulty she managed to say, "I think not. King Jonathon has made it very clear that my presence is neither wanted nor needed this time." She turned away abruptly and strutted out of the hall, presumably heading back to her rooms.

Jonathan nodded farewell to his soldiers and exited the room after Clarissa, heading to the king's own private dining room. It was technically reserved only for royalty, but Jonathon was the only one who actively used it.

"What a rare treat you're in for Jace," the wretched angel on his shoulder sneered. "Jonathon has decided to preserve your last shred of dignity by manipulating you in private instead. Perhaps he even has someone else for you to murder."

Jonathan gritted his teeth. How many times had he informed her that he was no longer Jace? "Jace," he spat the name, "would never be allowed so much. Jace is dead; don't speak of him to me again." He cast a glance at her presence over his shoulder. She was brooding, as per usual; being dead made her bitter and spiteful. "Besides, what happened to you wasn't even murder."

She snorted mirthlessly. "What would you call it?"

"Natural selection," he replied simply.

She disappeared.

* * *

"Ah, brother, glad you could make it," he said as poured over some familiar documents whilst eating his breakfast. His golden crown, as ever, was slanted atop his head – not quite in the danger of slipping off, but not quite firmly seated amongst his own white locks. It gave him a boyish look, but Jonathon was no boy.

Sometimes, Jonathan thought he never was.

Contrary to Jonathan, he was cloaked in blood red but his hands were covered in grey gloves. Red for calling down enchantment, he recalled – but he dared to believe that Jonathon would've informed him if they were to call enchantment down; they had done it before, only a few months ago, and it was no secret. Yet, grey was for knowledge best untold; and that was exactly what they were doing. A secret enchantment? He should've been told so that he wore the appropriate colour, but he supposed that the colour for summoning wicked powers wasn't too far off.

Jonathan bowed his head.

"Take a seat," Jonathon said needlessly, waving his hand at the selection of empty seats around him without looking up. "I don't know why I have to tell you every single time."

Jonathan did so, choosing to sit opposite his brother. He had expected him to be seated at the head of the table, as he usually did; but perhaps he only did that when he had someone there to assert power over.

"Must I always be the one to speak first, Jonathan?" He said tiredly.

Jonathan didn't know what to say in reply. If his brother didn't speak first and direct a question at him personally, how would he know that he was able to speak?

The king sighed. He finished writing something on one of his documents, and then hid them away from his brother's sight. He folded his hands under his chin, resting his elbows on the table; Jonathon looked at his brother curiously. "What I am going to show you today, Jonathan, must stay between us and no one else. Not even Clarissa must find out about this, okay?"

Jonathan nodded, smug that he would come to know something important to which Clarissa was still oblivious. "Of course, brother."

Jonathon smiled. "Fantastic." He pushed up from the table and indicated for Jonathan to follow him out of the room. Jonathan was hungry, having not been allowed a moment to eat, but he wasn't going to ask the king to stop; he hurried after him. "Now, you need to remember that what you're going to see is a work in progress. They're not quite ready to be brought into the war yet; there needs to be a little more research conducted on them, but once they _are_ ready…" The king smirked at Jonathan, his eyes alight with excitement. He was visibly quaking with eagerness to visit his new creation; Jonathan's stomach too, was filled with butterflies. Jonathon grasped the side of Jonathan's face, looking deeply into his eyes and preparing to make a promise; he moved closer to Jonathan and lowered his voice so that none of the demons milling around them would hear their secrets – not that any paid them particular mind.

Jonathan's eyes closed. He quivered.

"Dear brother," he said as soft as Jonathan had ever heard him. "You will be the first to have one."

"And Clarissa?" Jonathan asked bitterly.

He seemed amused. "Oh, Clarissa couldn't handle one of these. Perhaps she would, later, when a runt would be born." He leaned in to his ear; his words caressing his body. "I would give you the alpha. Or any other that you wanted."

He didn't what know or understand what he had been promised, but he knew it had to do with his new secret weapon. Jonathan assumed that it was an animal of some sort with the words "runt" and "alpha", but where were they being hidden? Jonathan didn't think there was anywhere within the manor that he had not been or known to exist – or anyone else, for that matter – and yet, this beast was a secret. This _massive_ beast – it had to be, to be of any use to Jonathon in the war – was hidden somewhere in the grounds and no one knew about it.

He was slightly relieved that he had decided to bring his dagger with him.

"Where are they?" He asked quietly, watching Jonathon suspiciously.

He smirked, and revealed a stele that had been hidden in his robes. "Somewhere only accessible by portal. You understand that it has to be this way, so that I remain the only one to know its exact location, yes?"

"Yes," he replied.

Jonathon nodded, and began to draw the portal rune. Once it was complete, he stepped through, not even bothering to order Jonathan to do the same; but he didn't need to be told. His curiosity was enough to cross through.

When he reappeared on the other side, he was on the upper level of a dimly light auditorium. His brother was leaning over the railings, quaking even more visibly in the excitement and awe of what laid below them.

"Brother," he called. "Brother, come look at this beauty."

Strange noises echoed in the chamber; ones that he could only imagine hearing in reality. The sounds of fantasy, the kind that only sounded in nightmares.

Putting one shaking foot in front of the other, Jonathan moved towards his beckoning hand. Roars and screeches grew in volume. When he reached the railing, he gripped it with white knuckles; all his strength left him as he peered over and the only thing that kept him on his feet was the support that the railing provided him.

"They're still young," his brother told him. "Too young to train as of yet, but they'll be ready in a few months."

 _Young._ Jonathan could barely breathe. _Young._ How had Jonathon managed to create these? These weren't made from any demon or Downworlder, and he had never seen anything like it in Edom.

They were destruction incarnate.

"They can't stay here forever, Jonathon. They've almost outgrown this place already," he whispered.

"Oh, I don't plan on keeping them here forever."


	10. Blinded

* * *

 

 

_" The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion" _

 

* * *

 

You're getting better at this, Little Sister," Jonathon panted somewhere behind her. She imagined he had a smirk on his face, but, unlike her, was free of sweat. "I knew this was a good idea."

Clary blocked the blow to her stomach, but knew it was only supposed to distract her as he aimed his next attack. She jumped as she felt his body shift into a crouch, but unfortunately her reaction was too slow, and his foot caught hers just as she left the ground, causing her to become unbalanced and crash to the floor.

"Oh really?" She groaned, as she sprung back onto her feet. Almost immediately she felt a brush of wind as he swung his arm at her head; she arched her back to duck out the way – yet, unintentionally, she gave herself too much momentum and had to pull herself into a flip to avoid falling over again or gaining a back injury. She landed in a crouch, narrowly avoiding her brother's kick to her back.

She  _was_  getting better at knowing where he was going to strike and when – and, begrudgingly, she had to admit that the blindfold was helping to hone her skills – but she wasn't perfect. Not yet. She would be happy when she's able to floor at least one of her brothers – that, for her, would be the sweet taste of success. She would have  _some_  power.

"Of course," he said. He aimed another kick at her, lower down this time, so it struck in between her shoulders and knocked her forwards. She turned into a forward roll and stood to her full height. She reassumed her original fighting stance. He circled her. "Father had me train this way numerous times. It helps you not to be dependent on your eyesight. You can feel the air shift around you when your opponent moves. For instance, when I do this-" he stepped quickly towards her from the right, as if he was going to tackle her to the floor.

That was usually how training ended so quickly; Clary was unable to shift that much muscle from atop her. 

She quickly spun to the side so that she could face him head-on, while stumbling backwards so that she was once again out of his attack range. Jonathon smiled. "-You move, just like that. Well done. And when I do  _this_ …" He faked a punch to her face; she, as he expected, brought her forearms up to block it. "So you can feel it."

"Feel - what?" She panted.

"The air shift." Jonathon kicked at her head again; Clary felt that it was almost as if he was determined to gain at least one strike on her head – or to kick it off. She swung her upper body downwards, spinning on her toes to face him again and retaliated by aiming a roundhouse kick to where she imagined his own head was. She felt the tickle of his hair as she skimmed the top of his head.

She was getting faster – but not fast enough. Her leg was caught by his hands.

Clary struggled to free herself of his grasp, but he only pushed her leg higher, and higher, until she was vertically doing the splits.

"Oh," he said deeply, "I didn't know you were  _that_  flexible." He let her twist out of his grasp this time.

No attack came in the resonating seconds and Clary knew that he was lustfully watching her – her, bathed in sweat, tired and blindfolded – intrigued by the new knowledge that she was able to backflip, perform a roundhouse kick and was improving in her sparring skills. Clary couldn't imagine any other perfect, erotic fantasy for him – unless, perhaps, it involved Jonathan, who was closer to Jonathon's equal on the fighting field than she was.

Fighting, it seemed, for both Jonathan  _and_  Jonathon, was what sex was like for other people.

She kicked at him again, aiming for the stomach in order to temporarily wind him, but, again, he caught her leg and spun her away. No sooner had her foot made contact with the floor again, did Jonathon engage her in a flurry of punches and sharp knocks to her head with the heels of his hands. Clary reckoned she was able to block a quarter of all his attacks, and now she had learnt to expect this to be a distraction whilst he once again tried to knock her legs out from beneath her. She was learning his subtle tricks.

Suddenly, in all her self-defence, in her frenzy and determination to strike her brother, she didn't notice that something had shifted within herself and, without thinking or knowing where her brother had now moved to, Clary performed a hook kick to her right and released a grunt of satisfaction when she felt her heel collide with the side of his head.

She felt him stumble sideways.

Spinning in the direction of her kick, she ducked out of the way of his blow to her head, and kicked his shoulder back as he struck out at her stomach. He grunted in pain. In one final attack, she smacked his cheek with her hand, curling in her nails to shred his skin and relishing the warm, sticky feel of his blood, before being thrown backwards onto the floor by her shoulders.

Clary thought he'd be proud of her, in his own deluded way, for finally being able to land blows on him and excelling in her training so much since she had first started, almost six months ago now, but he only spat and snarled.

"Get up," he hissed, "and take your blindfold off. This sparring session is over."

_Maybe_ , Clary though dejectedly,  _I had gone too far when I gouged four lines into his face._

Nevertheless, she did as he ordered, and removed her blindfold. He was close to her face when she opened her eyes, and was forced to see what she had done to him. Four, deep lines were carved into his left cheek, and were dripping rivulets of dark, viscous blood onto the floor and his Shadowhunting gear. His face was as hard as stone and his eyes blazed.

Clary didn't know whether she should've felt proud.

"If you want to inflict wounds and scars, Little Sister, then next time, we'll fight with weapons and I won't strike you so carefully," he snarled.

Clary wasn't quite sure if she was prepared for the lesson that he was threatening her with, but she wasn't prepared to apologise to him for what she had done. She had to remember that she wasn't at the Institute anymore, and this wasn't a normal training session. She was being held prisoner by her brother and his court of demons. He was training her in combat, but she wasn't sure whether he intended her to fight in his war or not.

She had to force herself to remember. She wouldn't – _couldn't_ – become like Jace.

"Weapons," she said slowly, defiantly, "would be a needed step up. Unless the Shadowhunters that you're fighting are without weapons?"

He breathed in harshly. She watched him clench his jaw, grinding his teeth together.

"You don't want to train, Clarissa," he growled. "You only fight in an attempt to hurt me." He didn't even need to indicate his shredded cheek. "You have no discipline -  _that's_  why you're not progressing as much as you expected. Do you think Jonathan was like  _you_  when I trained him?" Jonathon guffawed mirthlessly. Clary began to feel embarrassed. "You're _pathetic_ ; you're not going to get anywhere without discipline. You want to kill me?  _Good fucking luck."_ He flexed his hands by his sides, seeming to release some of his anger. "When you want to  _train,_ I'll be ready to teach  _and_  kick your ass. Now get out."

He threw open the door to the training room and called for his demon guards to escort her back to her rooms, where, he instructed, looking unapologetically at her, she was to remain until he came for her to take her to his celebration.

Clary left without resistance, but she held her head high, as a queen would. _Small victories,_ she persistently reminded herself.

* * *

 

 

Being locked in her room all day wasn't even so much of a punishment, Clary found. She didn't want to be with Jonathan or her brother anyway, and she felt safer being shut away from all their demons. They couldn’t hurt her here. Here, she could almost pretend that she was somewhere else.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t as if she had expected to be kept under Jonathan's guard – she had watched him ride away, to some important yet mysterious location, this morning. He had been disappearing a lot; riding across their kingdom from the early morning, only to return in the early evening with a few scrapes and bruises on his face.

It was too little for him to have been in a battle, as she knew he was frequently involved in – and he was riding out alone anyhow, which he would never have been allowed to do if he was participating in battle. Moreover, Jonathon seemed to know where he was going and encouraged it as often as he could, but neither would give away any further details of  _why_  he needed to go or where; all she knew is that he left every day with the king's blessing and that it had all started three weeks ago, when they had enjoyed breakfast together. Without her.

She ground her teeth.

What were they planning? What was so special that she wasn't allowed to be told about it? Clary would've thought that they would've trusted her – their dearest little sister - by now, but Jonathon only seemed to be gaining confidence and Jonathan's hate only seemed to intensify.

She was tired. She was creating all the runes that Jonathon asked of her in fear of being sent down to the prisons and enduring the-Angel-knows-what under either of their hands – she had no doubt that Jonathan had been trained in torture techniques by her brother, and that he was probably waiting with bated breath for the day that Jonathon told him he could have her. Clary trained the battalion to Jonathon's standards and ensured they all succeeded in the tests that he put them through; she attended Jonathon's training every time he requested her and was beginning to keep quiet when he decided to spout his garbage about how they were different species - and yet they were still as cautious as ever with information around her.

She decided that she was going to find out what their little secret was herself. If she was going to be their little sister and his princess, then she was going to be included in whatever destruction they were now planning.

 

* * *

 

Jonathon reappeared at her door hours later, dressed proudly in regal purple and his ill-fitting crown. His cheek had not been repaired.

He smiled, the gouges compressing together. “Well, Clarissa, shall we go?”

Clary touched her own cheek, her finger brushing timidly over the smooth, unbroken skin. “Your face…” She started, not knowing how she was going to finish her sentence without sounding as if she cared. “It’s…”

He touched the four lines, accidentally breaking the beginnings of scabs. “Ah, yes,” he said fondly. Black blood dotted his fingertips. She thought that she saw him shrug. “What’s a king without some battle wounds?”

_“Battle wounds,”_ Clary whispered to herself.So that was what he was calling them, then.

He offered her his hand, the same one that had touched his wounds. “You’re fierce,” he said happily, so different from when he had first realised what she had done to him. While she sat in her room, she figured that he must’ve hated them, for making him look weak, unable to defend himself at the hands of his sister, who was still in training and looking to kill him. It didn’t seem that way anymore. He wore them with pride. “I’m sure everyone downstairs would like to see how fierce you’re becoming.”

Clary almost stepped backwards. She didn’t want to become what everyone downstairs thought she would; she didn’t want to be fierce, she didn’t want to excel at her brother’s training and inflict mindless injuries without rationality, like she had done. He wore them with pride because she was becoming his finely tuned warrior, like Jace had become. She didn’t want that.

By the Angel, she didn’t want that.

He rolled his eyes. “We can’t be late to our own celebration, sister.” He beckoned her with his hand, and, grudgingly, she moved towards him, taking his arm. He gripped her tightly but not roughly, as if she was a frightened animal that needed guidance to pass all of the demons that lined the staircase on their way down to the ballroom – but it wasn’t as if this was the first celebration that she had been forced to go to.

Granted though, it was the first one where she had behaved as well as she was now.

Clary eyed the demon’s weapons as she passed them; all made of the metal that had cut a chunk out of her ankle and left a thin scar. If she was going to kill her brother, they were something that she needed to deal with.

“Jonathan,” her brother greeted pleasantly at the bottom of the staircase. Clary forced a smile; so did Jonathan.

If she was going to kill her brother, Jonathan’s returning presence was something that she needed to deal with. He was someone that she either needed on her side or dead. Jace was gone now, as he liked to remind her every time she referred to him as such; he wasn’t coming back. He had left her in this dark, dangerous place without any help.

Jonathan eyed her suspiciously, as if he knew what she was thinking about. He looked to the slices on Jonathon’s cheek and then back to her. Clary looked away; he knew that it was her and would most likely argue with Jonathon about it later, when she was out of earshot. He’d question why he felt the need to train her personally and allow her to do these sort of things to him without punishment, until he was silenced by him and then dutifully plead for forgiveness from him depending on how angry he was over it; Clary had heard it before.

“Leaving so soon, Brother?” Jonathon asked, looking smug.

Clary bit the inside of her cheek. Of _course_ Jonathan wasn’t going to be staying for the celebration; he obviously had better things to do than to be a _real_ prince – and obviously Jonathon knew and accepted it. She couldn’t stand the thought of being with her brother, alone, for the whole night.

Clary tried to look innocent in her curiosity. “Leaving?” She questioned, forcing herself to sound surprised. Jonathon shared an amused glance with Jonathan. “Where are you going? You can’t possibly not be attendance to our own celebration.”

Both boys looked to Jonathan’s clothes, and Clary felt her cheeks warm in embarrassment. They had been flaunting their secret in front of her the entire time; it had been no coincidence that she had always been there to watch him ask for leave and be granted it. They were teasing her. “I’ll be back later, Jonathon,” he said, looking to him and ignoring Clary altogether. “I may be back before this celebration is over.” He looked to Clary uneasily. “It…depends if our theories prove true.”

“Well, you will be missed tonight,” he said in dismissal. “The Shadowhunters haven’t seen their old general in so long.”

She ground her teeth. Was she replacing Jonathan in importance or was he moving further up the scale, leaving her behind? She hadn’t even known that he had once been the general of the battalion until now, and with the many stories of his prowess in battle, she thought it’d be unusual that he was replaced – and it couldn’t have been because she was better than him. She wasn’t.

Jonathan bowed his head and kissed her brother’s Morgenstern ring on his proffered hand, their common sign of respect. Clary had never been so low as to do that; she hoped that she never would. He stood up from his kneel, straightening out his grey jacket, and Clary noticed that he was wearing a similar ring on his own hand - had that been her own family ring? Unreasonable jealously mixed with her already festering hatred for him, and she was ready to inflict the same injuries that she had given her brother to him as he moved to kiss her on both cheeks, whispering into her skin an ominous threat that she hoped her brother heard. She’d relish that punishment.

Yet, as always, her prayers were unanswered in the centre of hell.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t long into the party until Clary realised that there was nothing to celebrate at all, and this was something to keep her distracted from whatever Jonathan was doing. There was a small thought that all this torment may be one of their little games, to test her, to push her into disobedience and imprison her as par their promise, but it was so frustrating that it was difficult to consider it.

She was being led around the room, from demon to Shadowhunter to Downworlder (whose reasons for being involved with him she still didn’t understand), by her brother’s careful hand on the small of her back, which repeatedly strayed to rest on her butt, as she was all too aware. No one seemed to take any notice of his teasing touches and euphemisms, as if it was natural and pure fact – but Clary was on edge, waiting for it to progress. It never did.

He indulged almost every subject he met with a good few minutes of his time, being grossly charming and polite, indicating his battle wounds if he noticed they were staring at it too long or had yet to bring it up and proudly giving Clary credit, much to her embarrassment. She had once felt good about what she had done, but she hadn’t expected her brother – or any of the others – to display the same sort of pride in front of her. They’d congratulate her, albeit if only to appease Jonathon, who seemed to be expecting it, and imply that she must be doing good work for the battalion (unless they _were_ in the battalion, then they would spout compliments about her to their king). Some were cautious about her ‘good work’, as if they understood her plans to eventually murder the king; they must’ve thought (incorrectly, to Clary’s grating nerves), that if _she_ could hurt the king, then everyone under her command would – could – hold the same power. Others were genuinely naïve enough – or better at masking their emotions from their king, who’d make good allies if Clary thought that she could trust them – to sound ecstatic at this new development. Both parties were sycophantic over his wounds, grovelling about the pain that he must’ve felt and how much more fierce-some he looks with it, trying to gain further favour with him.

Clary rolled her eyes, looking around the room, watching the servants – prisoners that he’d brought out on good behaviour to serve him and his guests – and his guards who were on duty tonight, milling around, also keep close watch on the servants. She took a sip of her champagne, relishing the warmth it made her feel; still, she made sure not to have too much lest Jonathon _did_ to take his teasing any further. She wondered where he had even gotten this much champagne from, in the middle of his war.

One of Jonathon’s guards approached him during their conversation and whispered something into his ear; he smiled, thanked the guard for his information and apologised to the warlock whom they had just been conversing with. They spoke for a few minutes more about battle plans and pointless things.

“Come, Clarissa,” Jonathon cooed, steering her away from the warlock, and up the dais and towards their respective thrones. She wondered whether Jonathon and Jonathan had ever been here together without her, holding court. Whose throne was it anyway? It couldn’t be Jonathan’s – could two men in different positions of power sit next to each other on thrones? But he was here first, here before her…Or was it always left waiting for her? Did taking it mean that she was his princess – his queen? Wasn’t the other throne always for the queen?

He sat on his throne languidly and pulled her gently towards him by her hand. She hovered by him, not knowing whether to take the empty throne or to continue standing.

“Well, take a seat, sister,” he said, delicately drinking his wine. Clary moved towards empty throne, but Jonathon pulled her back. “Not there,” he said over the rim of his glass, “our brother will be joining us soon. He’ll take that seat.”

_So maybe that_ was _his throne_ , Clary mentally conceded. _So where did that leave her?_ She wondered bitterly _._ Yet, she knew; like the little sister she was to them, she was left out of their games.“Where am I supposed-” She cut herself short, watching her brother look to and indicate his lap. Clary inhaled deeply, weighing her options. She _needed_ to get into their little circle – she had to _know –_ but wasn’t this a bit too far? Still, he had plenty of chances to turn on her tonight, and he hadn’t done it; it wasn’t the first time that she had thought he was biding his time – but for what, she didn’t know. She wasn’t sure whether that was something she wanted to know.

She imperceptibly shook her head.

He smiled charmingly. “Come now, Sister. You’ve been good tonight thus far.” His eyes glinted darkly, as if that was all the threat that he needed. “I’ve been patient with you. Is it not working?”

Clary made sure to whisper, “I hate you” as she sat on his knee, feeling awfully uncomfortable at this sort of contact. Other than fighting, his occasional aggressive grips on her face, and when he tended to her wounds, they never had such peaceful contact like this.

“Of course you do,” he replied smugly, drinking his wine and observing the floor before him.

 

* * *

 

Some demons (or Shadowhunters – Clary couldn’t tell them apart from this far away if the demons were in possession of a body) and Downworlders started to dance below them, as some fairies began to play a song or two. She could tell that Jonathon was thinking about taking her to dance, to his great amusement, but he never did. She felt him fidget at one point, as if he had made up his mind so soon after accomplishing some form of non-aggressive contact between them, but then a guard came to whisper something in his ear and he stilled, his intentions and desires swerving away from teasing his baby sister.

“Party’s over, Clarissa,” he whispered in her ear. He drained the rest of his wine.

Clary’s stomach sunk, tightening her grip on her champagne flute. The drink was flat and warm now. _What did he mean that the party was over?_ From Clary’s point of view, the party looked just as lively as it did when it had begun hours ago. What was happening – what was _wrong?_ Her brother had never cut a party short. Clary’s eyes drifted to the empty throne next to theirs. It looked cold.

Jonathan still had not shown up, and she had not been given any word of where he was. She supposed her brother knew, but he seemed just as lost about his presence as she did. Where _was_ he?

“What?” Clary asked, perhaps a bit too loudly from Jonathon’s stern expression. She slid off his lap as he began to stand from his chair. Maybe it wasn’t clear to the others that the end of the party was imminent.

Jonathon called a cluster of his guards to the bottom of his dais with a head tilt, which wasn’t noticeably unnatural in the slightest. Clary was scared, but his arm secured itself around her waist again and he whispered instructions about behaviour and emergency to her, so faintly that she was sure that she missed some parts, and walked them leisurely down the dais, as if there really was nothing wrong. Her safety was in his hands; she understood that now, however much she wished it wasn’t true.

He could feed her to the wolves with a single word.

He handed her off to his elite force of guards, made from a selection of his most trusted and experienced Downworlders, demons and Shadowhunters. Despite some of their objections to send them _all_ away, leaving himself with nothing, he did it anyway.

She was carted off to her room again, through a back door that she had never known existed; no one from the party had even noticed that she had vanished, and Jonathon had turned his back on her as soon as they started to move.

She smiled internally. He never said that she was to be kept under lock and key this time. There were to be no guards posted outside her door. She could go see what was happening. 

 

* * *

 

She gave it half an hour before she peered out from behind her door.

The entire floor and the rest of the house was way too quiet and empty.

Clary tugged at her hunting outfit – something that Jonathon had let her keep as a reward for good behaviour – as slipped out of her room.

She had covered stealth tactics with Jonathan and her brother before, in one of their ‘theory’ training sessions, and she was glad that it was possibly the only one that didn’t feature any of Jonathon’s propaganda bullshit. She had genuinely paid attention during that lesson without it.

Clary made sure to move quickly across the hall where it was near impossible for anyone to see her, so that no one had a chance of catching her either. When it came to the grand staircase heading downstairs, however, she slowed, peering out from behind the corner of the wall to see if there were any patrols occurring at the present moment. There was nothing. She was about to move, but then – Jonathan.

So he _had_ returned, Clary thought curiously. Jonathan, who was dressed in same clothes as when he left – yet these were now bloodied and ripped, and so were parts of his face. Jonathan, who was supposed to return over 4 hours ago.

This was different to when he usually came back home. He was always on time.

He paused suddenly in the centre of the entrance hall, and looked around sharply, as if he knew she was hiding. Clary shrunk further behind her wall; it was her only form of protection - as far as she knew, no rune had been created to allow anyone to see through walls. That was her only area of expertise. Then, as suddenly as he’d stopped, he continued on with a hint of a smirk on his mouth.

Why was Jace sneaking around the Manor in the middle of the night without an escort of demons or Jonathon himself? _Why was he late?_

She had to see what was going on. If they weren’t going to tell her…

Clary moved out from behind the corner of her wall, feeling horrendously exposed as she trailed Jonathan to wherever he liked to go without her.

 

* * *

 

She had barely placed one foot into the dark room before she was tackled to the floor and felt the tip of a knife at her throat. Her eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness, but she knew that it was Jonathan straddling her hips and pointing one of his many daggers at her jugular. 

She hadn’t even been able to see that he was concealing them in his clothes. _Stupid_ , she berated herself.

"Following me, little sister?" He hissed, pressing the tip further into her skin. "Why?"

"I'm not  _your_  little sister. I'm Jonathon's, and I despise it," she spat.

Maybe not as venomously as she once did, but they were far from having the perfect brother-sister relationship – and anyway, who was Jonathan to know what she thought?

He laughed.

Clary bucked her hips to try throw him off, but it was futile; Jonathan was heavier and firmer than she remembered. Her brother really was turning him into a war machine. 

The knife was finally pressed hard enough to split her skin. "I asked  _why,_  Clarissa."

She scoffed mirthlessly. She _hated_ when they called her Clarissa.

“Where have you been going?” She blurted. “What’s so important that Jonathon has to personally send his pet to deal with it?”

“What does it matter to you?” He paused; she imagined that he smiled cruelly. “Upset that he still doesn’t trust you? How sad – you, his own blood. If it makes you feel better, I don’t trust you either.”

"I don’t care,” she growled. “I don't trust _you_. You're a traitor." She spat at his face. He disgustedly wiped it off himself. “You’re weak. How long did it take for him to break you? For you to turn into his ever loyal servant?"

He slapped her across the face with his free hand, fast enough that she was unable to protect herself. Her head snapped to the right, causing the blade to slice a thin line across her throat. She felt the weight of his new Morgenstern ring. "The Clave were corrupt. They're not even helping people  _now_. They've never helped anyone, Clarissa, unless it directly affected them. Their people are dying, here, in Idris, where their council was based. When our brother-"

" _My_  brother-"

_"_ -started becoming a threat, the Clave went into hiding and left their people unorganised and unsupported. But when Jonathon made a new treaty with the werewolves and the vampires and the few warlocks that live here, the mighty Shadowhunters fell apart when they - and his demons - started to attack. Do you know who the first ones to die were, Clarissa?" 

"Why are you telling me this?" Clary felt sick. This wasn’t what she wanted to know. How did it come to this?

"Do you know? Take a guess," he pressed. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Clary repeated.

Jonathan slapped her again. “Answer me,” he demanded.

"No. I don't."

"Families. They started dying out quickly. Do you know  _why?"_  

"No," she whispered.

"Because their parents were protecting their children, who aren't taught how to fight until they _choose_ to be a Shadowhunter at 10. Everyone should know how to protect themselves, sister.  _Everyone._ That  _rule_  was weak and limited their power. The  _Clave_  are weak."

Clary couldn't breathe. "So, what? You would prefer that innocent children are prepared for war? That they actually  _fight_  against the creatures of their nightmares? They are  _children,_  Jace. They deserve innocence."

"I'm not Jace," he suddenly snapped. He was livid; she could feel him trembling. "I'm  _not_." He took the knife away from her throat and slammed it into the wooden flooring, close to her head. He now used both of his hands to pin hers, which had slowly been creeping up to overthrow him. "If Max was properly trained then he might still be alive. If the Clave wasn't so blind and stupid, then they would've guarded the Demon Towers."

She blinked slowly. "Are you blaming Max for his own death? Against  _Jonathon_  - he wouldn't have had any more of a chance even if he was. He was doomed from the moment Jonathon located him and Izzy. We were all doomed."

"Max would've been able to work together with his sister. He may have still died but they would've brought some time. His brother was the greatest archer I'd met, his mother and sister were fierce in battle - and I'd known him for most of my life. We would've made him into something fierce."

“Why have children learn to fight?” Clary couldn’t fully understand his reasoning, other than his grief. “Unless…” She took in a deep breath. “Unless, you were running out of fully trained, adult Shadowhunters.”

"If we needed more Shadowhunters then we'd use the Mortal Cup," he said lazily.

“ _Then what does this have to do with where’s you’ve been sneaking off to?”_ There was too much information. “Where are you two doing?” She demanded.

He was all too happy to indulge her with _that_ information. Information that she didn’t have – information that made him superior. "What we're doing is creating a new, strong kingdom; a bigger, more functional army of Shadowhunters. I've-"

"That's enough for today, brother," Jonathon's voice said quietly.

Clary hadn't even heard him enter the room. Unless they were meeting here.

"I think she's learnt enough for this next week." Jonathon's hands brushed Jonathan’s hair and settled on the back of his neck. "Get the lights, I want to see what I'm doing."

Jonathan, ever dutiful, did as he was told; he pulled his dagger out of her grasp, slicing her hand as she scrambled for the handle.

The lights went on to reveal a complete wooden room, similar to a barn. However, there was no hay or animals inside the room. There was an obvious throne at the back centre, raised on a dais and facing a large empty space. To the side of the room there were wooden benches along the walls.

Jonathan stood at the opposite end of the room, a sconce in his hand with which he used to light the others along the walls, and a witchlight that he threw to Jonathon. He caught it with ease.

Her brother, who stood in front of her, was also covered in blood. He lifted her up from the floor with a disappointed look, and firmly tucked her under his arm, close to his body. She could feel that he had no weapons - not even a stele. 

"This is my council room, Clarissa. We use it to suss out who is lying about joining the new power and who isn't. We use it to devise battle strategies, what to do with our new supporters, and who gets to spend time in the prison.” He paused, letting the information sink in. He moved her towards the back of the room, where a single door provided the only other exit. “ _Sometimes_ I meet here with Jonathan, to discuss private information.” He gave her a simple look. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, where I left you? What were you doing here?”

“She followed me here,” Jonathan answered, his anger flaring. “She tried to make me tell her about-” He cut himself off suddenly, remembering.

She didn’t deny it. “And did you?” He asked, keeping his eyes on Clary.

Jonathan seemed flabbergasted that he thought him so weak that he would’ve told her about it. “No. Of course not,” he said, almost yelling. He paused, tilting his head, considering his moves. “She doesn’t understand, brother. You’ve been too easy on her – she’s _pushing_ her boundaries-!”

“You do seem to be lacking respect,” Jonathon conceded, looking hurt, as if it was one of his own demon puppies that he was about to punish. “And discipline, like I said earlier.”

“Brother,” she tried. She knew where this was going. She knew where the door led.

“If you must know, one of our guests tonight tipped off a group of rebels about your brother’s whereabouts while he was out.” He looked sharply at her. “He almost _died_ tonight, Clarissa and – here you are, hunting him, like an animal. Demanding _private_ information off him, like a prisoner. Wounding _me,_ as if I haven’t been a good host to you this entire time.” His face hardened. “You’ve been doing well for yourself these past few months. I hoped that you had begun to understand – it’s clear now that you still need guidance. _Since_ I am your brother and I, perhaps, have a naïve faith, I won’t keep you in your cell for more than three days. I think that’ll be enough.”

She looked to Jonathan. Oh how he must enjoy this turn of events, the smug bastard.

Jonathon waved a hand. “You know where to take her.” He walked out of the council room without so much as a second glance.

Jonathan’s grip was hard.


	11. Displacement

_“Little by little, the old world crumbled, and not once did the king imagine that some of the pieces might fall on him.”_

* * *

 

"Our brother says that you're allowed food," he said flippantly, trying hard not to look at her quivering body huddled in the corner. It disgusted him; he remembered when he was like that, before Jonathon improved him.

"Finally," she muttered, as if he was a servant that she had been waiting on. He wasn't. He was far above that.

His sister shifted in her dark corner, as if she was going to get up and collect the food from him. Jonathan would've thought that at least a day locked in here would've been enough for her to understand what she had done wrong, but she didn't seem to be learning anything untouched as she was in her cell. Isolation would do nothing for her, especially if she was being rewarded with food such as she was.

His felt his face harden and tucked the tray back into his body. "But I'm in charge of you," he said, stepping backwards, out of the threshold of her prison, "and I say you're not allowed to have any."

He heard her sudden intake of breath. She was expecting him to give it to her, because of Jonathon. "And what are you hoping to achieve with this?" She asked.

If he was honest with himself, he didn't really know. Three days wasn't nearly long enough to learn anything in imprisonment; he didn't know how to make her regret stalking him, disobeying and harming their brother in three days – especially without food. Hurting her would be a much quicker way for the message to sink in – starvation was much more useful for obedience, but he wasn't the one that needed her obedience. That was something for Jonathon to take for himself; he didn't think that he would appreciate it if he gained her obedience _for_ him.

"You either don't understand why you're here or you don't regret it," he said simply. "I'm here to fix that."

She snorted. "Trying a new technique, then?" He looked at her, confused, still clutching her tray of food to his chest. "After your failed assault on me yesterday," she clarified. "You see now that I don't regret whatever led me here."

_Right._ Jonathan forgot that he had tried to strike her yesterday when he placed her in this cell. He had forgotten that he had barely touched her before she knocked his hands away. She was more like his brother than he was. "You're here because you're a disobedient little _wretch_ ," he snapped, trying to get over the shame of his defeat. He walked back into her cell. "You've been disobeying our brother since the day you arrived and _yesterday_ – you struck him, our king-!"

" _We were training!"_ She burst out. He could see her face, as light shone in from behind him, flushed with anger – or embarrassment. "I-" She cut herself off suddenly, which left him wondering what she was about to say. "He was proud of them at first! How was I-" She was crying now, her tears dripping down her cheeks and splashing on the floor. Jonathan shifted; he didn't know how she should react to this new development. He didn't particularly mean to make her cry as she was now, as if she really was their _little_ sister. "How was I supposed to know that-that it was disobedience? That we're not _supposed_ to inflict wounds on each other during training? He's always beating me, bruising me, throwing me down. For once, I won – I _won!"_

She smiled despite her tears, leaving Jonathan utterly confused. Her tears would imply that she regretted it, but – why was she smiling? Maybe there was something wrong with her. She was hysterical.

"I won," she whispered gleefully. "It was wonderful. He was upset by it a little, but that's only because I could kill him. I can kill him."

Jonathan gritted his teeth. "How dare you even think about that? That's not even just fratricide, that's-that's _treason!_ That's regicide!" He looked around wildly, so unable to properly cope with the idea that she could ever think of such a thing. To kill your own _family_? It was laughable to him.

She only blinked at him.

"You will regret this," he promised. "You will. You can starve to death here for all I care."

Except, she couldn't. Jonathon would care if she died, and he would be the one to blame for not following orders. Jonathon might even interpret her death as an attack on himself from the inside, despite any pleas that he might make. He might even think that he was _copying_ her disobedience.

He'd come back later with a glass of water and a few scraps to keep her going for the next day - but that would be all he would do, he promised himself. He'd visit her later and make her _really_ sorry for what she's done -when she was weaker from not being watered or fed.

Jonathan looked to the bucket that was kept in the cell for the prisoners to use a toilet; sometimes they'd take them away so that they'd understand that Jonathon was in control of how they lived and that to not be on his side was to be deprived.

Hers had clearly been used.

He was tempted to further increase her discomfort by removing it, but he supposed it was a step too far at this stage. Still, he didn't doubt that she'd be back in prison soon enough. He made eye contact with her, who was watching him observe the bucket with a slight panic-stricken look. He chuckled quietly, slowly backing out of her prison; he knew what she was so scared of, but he couldn't understand how she didn't think that Jonathon already knew about it. Jonathon may have had a male-orientated upbringing, but he wasn't stupid. Clary had been here for over six months now – he would've noticed it at some point.

"I should go," he said heavily. "Jonathon will want to know how you're coping and your murder plans and such."

"Long live the king," she whispered.

Jonathan kicked over her bucket, spilling the fresh contents over the floor. It was such a small room, there was hardly anywhere she could lay down now to avoid lying in it. Jonathon snorted happily; she deserved to lie in her own shit. "Long live the king," he replied.

* * *

Jonathan knew that it was time to step up.

It couldn't have played out more perfectly than it had, if he was being honest. With Clarissa fallen from grace and the palace back to how it had been without her, he could pull himself so far up into the favourite position, that even when she was released, she would be a mile off from where he was.

And he knew just how to do it. Jonathan was getting aroused just thinking about it, about how pleased Jonathon would be with him and his choice. Oh, he couldn't wait. He'd been waiting to steal back more time with his brother since she arrived, and _now -_ well, he wouldn't let this opportunity just pass him by. He wanted to feel the benefits of his decision for days, wanted to visit Clarissa with evidence of his blissful euphoria so that she knew that whatever she had, he had had it first. He was better, he was higher. He was more important.

"Brother," he was greeted as he stepped into his brother's office again. Jonathan closed the door behind him and walked over to his desk to take up his customary seat in front of it, watching his brother closely. It was the first time that he had been called to see him, and Jonathon wasn't sitting at his desk perusing his secret documents; instead, he was standing, observing a crudely created calendar that he had pinned on his wall, partially hidden behind maps of Idris and battle plans.

Jonathon had still not healed the gouges across his cheek, wearing them as a reminder of some sort. He didn't like to reflect back on the truth that Clarissa had told him, about how he was wearing them with pride so soon after he acquired it. Jonathan didn't understand it. Any of it. The idea that someone as pathetic and lowly, someone as traitorous and evil and _wrong_ as Clarissa was able to do _that_ to their king was mind-boggling. She had scarcely been here for six months, and she was already inflicting injuries like that on him - when _he_ had reached the six month marker, he was still learning that Jace was a corrupt person, someone as evil and wrong as his girlfriend, Clary.

To be sure, Clarissa wasn't so much different – but he had been promised that she would get better. He had to believe that she was going to get better. Jonathon did, after all, and he was the king.

"No chess today, Jonathan," he said as Jonathan patiently sat and waited in his chair. He turned away from the calendar, letting the map cover it back up. "I just want to talk with you. Maybe we'll even go riding."

"Our sister's still not sorry," he supplied. "She refused the food too, I-"

"Jonathan, please," Jonathon said tiredly. "Not about that." He fingered a knife that was laid across his desk; it was one of his more intricately designed ones, decorated with jewels and words written in a demonic language that made his head hurt and his stomach churn. "I don't want to talk about that."

Jonathan bit his tongue. He had always known how fond Jonathon was of Clarissa, but he didn't think that he would've been this forlorn about her imprisonment. She really _was_ something else if it affected Jonathon this much; still, Jonathan reminded himself, he never knew what Jonathon was like during his own imprisonment. Perhaps it wasn't unusual.

Jonathon slid into his chair, still clutching the knife. "How is your training going?" He offered. "How is…" he gestured behind Jonathan, seemingly at a loss for words. "How is… _she?"_

Jonathan ignored the second question effortlessly; she hadn't been with him as often as she used to anymore, as if she was finally leaving him behind.

Training was fine, same as it had always been ever since Jonathon had stopped focusing on him and moved onto their sister, leaving him to gain skills from demon associates – but Jonathan couldn't tell him that. He wasn't supposed to sound whiney, and training Clarissa was probably more important and required more work and time than he did. He understood that his brother was very busy as a king, and that there was probably a scare amount of time left for himself.

He tried a joke: "It's going as well as ever," he said lightly. " _I_ could probably take _you_ now."

Jonathon touched his cheek lightly, moving over the gashes as if remembering it. "Yes," he said distantly, "you probably could. I'm probably getting old now."

Jonathan's face reddened. That wasn't what he had intended at all – and the implication that Jonathon was getting _old?_ It was ridiculous. Jonathon was as young and wild as ever, only recently nearing his mid-20s. He was still the best warrior in the entire manor – the fact that Clarissa had managed to touch him was a complete fluke. It had to be.

Jonathan decided to change to subject quickly, to try and revive whatever he had just killed in their relationship with that comment with the acceptance of Jonathon's offer. He opened his mouth to say it, but suddenly, Jonathon laughed, pulling his hand away from his face – and Jonathan knew that he wasn't upset or offended, that he wasn't even that pitiful about her imprisonment. He smiled amusedly. "I like you better, brother, when you're lighter. You're too serious nowadays," he said. "We used to have fun, me and you. Maybe we should revisit that, while Clarissa is in prison."

Getting back into favourite position wasn't as difficult or tedious as Jonathan had thought it would be; perhaps he had never left. He missed life before her.

He nodded enthusiastically. "We could go and train by Lake Lyn, like we used to," he said. "Or – go riding, like you said. You haven't been outside in a while, haven't seen how life is progressing."

He looked at Jonathan from under his lashes, a slow smirk creeping up his face. He looked him over from head to toe, seemingly satisfied. "Tempting offer, brother; but someone has to stay here in charge in case of an attack – and Clarissa can hardly be in charge from the prisons."

Jonathan deflated. "You could leave it in the hands of the Edom princes and princesses," he suggested. "Lake Lyn isn't far from here."

Jonathon's lip curled. "I don't trust them," he muttered. "They have nothing of importance to them here; they could burn it all to the ground by the time we come back, and have a good portion of our army massacred and stolen."

So they weren't going out anywhere. "Maybe we could venture into the library again," he tried again, desperate to be somewhere with him. Besides, Jonathan liked it when they were in the library. For one, Clarissa hadn't stepped foot in there yet, and it was easily one of the biggest rooms in the manor with the most windows. It wasn't exactly the outside, or a good old-fashioned fight with his brother – Jonathan had never been particularly bookish – but it was nice, peaceful. He had good memories there; he didn't think that either of them had been happier.

Jonathon's eyes lighted. "Yes," he said slowly, standing from his desk. Jonathan followed suit. "By the Angel we haven't been there in months." He rifled through desk drawers and withdrew his most secreted items; Jonathan was convinced that he must be the only person in his entire court to know of it. "You'll let me-?"

Jonathan nodded. He had never said no to it yet, and he didn't particularly think he would in the future. He just hoped that in the future, their sister didn't take this from him too.

"There's a bottle of _Domaine Romanée-Conti,_ in that cabinet over there. Grab that and some glasses, and follow me out," he said, walking out of the door, his arms laden with blankets and cushions, hiding his secret.

Jonathan quickly did as he was told and hurried to catch up with his brother, who was in a perversely good mood – better than he had ever seen him. Boyish, almost; excited. It was the sort of mood that made you want to please him further – impress him further, see how far his happiness went. Jonathan was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

* * *

Jonathan unlocked the door, his hands holding the least amount of things, and promised Jonathon's wicked smile as he crossed the threshold that he'd keep quiet.

Jonathon set down his equipment on the floor, and arranged the blanket and pillows on the floor as he wanted them, whilst Jonathan poured each of them a glass of the red wine and opened all the windows. It'd been a long time since he had been allowed any alcohol, since he was constantly being sent out to the front line and winning Jonathan's battles for him while he stayed here and protected the home front.

Jonathan handed his brother his own glass once he was finished setting up, and he took it hastily, pulling Jonathan down with him as he settled back amongst the cushions. Some of their wine spilt on the blanket, but they didn't care; they had an entire bottle of it to use as frequently as they wished.

He fell on his back next to his brother, watching him drink his glass as quick as he possibly could while trailing his eyes over him. Jonathan breathed harder, getting significantly hotter the longer he remained there, watching and being watched. He set his glass down, far away from where they were lying, and sat up. He took the glass away from Jonathon – he having slowed his drinking after seeing the effects it was having on Jonathan - setting it next to his own, and placed his lips firmly on his, cupping the back of his neck.

Jonathan liked the feel of the wisps of white hair at the nape of his neck, liked the way his lips moved back against his, curved into a smile, and especially liked having control – he could understand why Clarissa had tried to reverse the power roles between them.

Yet, it was something that he wasn't used to and didn't feel as rewarding as usual, and so he allowed himself to be pushed back to the floor, and, once again, the power roles were back to how they should be. Jonathon was laughing against his mouth as their respective crowns fell from their heads; his fingers curled against his jaw, and he settled himself over him, balancing on his haunches. He kissed him slowly, as if he was savouring it, drawing out any remaining flavour of wine that was left on his lips; Jonathan tried to speed it up, having missed this feeling for so long, but Jonathon slowed it down even further as a sort of punishment. Jonathan soon learnt, he was getting quicker at learning.

Jonathan bucked his hips, sighing in relief as he brushed against his brother's erection; likewise, Jonathon faltered momentarily on his lips, and breathed harsher. As he moved to place his lips on Jonathan's neck, licking and sucking and biting and coaxing all manner of sounds from his lips, he ground his hips against Jonathan's. He reached down to the hem of Jonathan's shirt, and pushed it up, exposing the tattooed flesh beneath it; tattooed flesh that his hands danced across, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Jonathan scrambled to remove his shirt entirely.

Jonathon soon ducked down and moved his kisses to his stomach, tracing some of the runes with his tongue.

"Do some of these stamina runes still work, Jonathan?" Jonathon asked huskily, looking up at him with dark eyes. He was smirking wickedly, holding eye contact with Jonathan as he purposely traced the rune with his tongue.

All Jonathan could do was whimper.

He hushed him, sliding back up to kiss his lips again. "I thought you promised to be quiet," he said teasingly.

Jonathan nodded, grasping his brother's shoulder. His hand slid down the neckline of his shirt, feeling the smooth expanse of his back, the muscles moving under his fingertips until - they brushed scarred flesh. He touched them delicately, as if he might hurt him still.

Jonathan used to be the only one who knew about these. The only one who touched them.

"I'm not going to break," he said, somewhat frustrated. Jonathan's hand froze.

"I don't want to hurt you," he replied, almost robotically.

He scoffed. Jonathon sat up and pulled off his shirt and robe, tossing them away somewhere behind them. "I'm a big boy, Jonathan. I can take care of myself, if I have to." He leaned over to their glasses and picked up his, drinking it as he watched Jonathan watch him.

He was right, of course. He'd been taking care of himself well before he became the prince. Jonathon was strongly built, broader than his own lithe body, and with many more wounds and scars from fights than he had. He could take a substantial amount of pain - he had seen him do it. Anything that he could do to him was nothing; he had probably already experienced it.

He finished his drink and set it back where he had picked it up. "No matter," he said charmingly, settling himself back in between Jonathan's legs. "I'm glad that at least one of my siblings know how to treat their brother." His hand brushed over the tent in Jonathan's trousers, purposely applying pressure as he shivered. "Let's reward you."

"Oh yes," she said suddenly, standing behind Jonathon in the same hunting clothes that she had died in. "Reward you for becoming as evil as him, for becoming a traitor to your own kind. For killing your friends."

"Not now," he groaned as Jonathon began to palm his erection, roughly stroking it until it was painful. "Piss off."

Jonathon stroked him harder, pumping him through his clothes. He knew that he wasn't talking to him. "Get rid of her, Jonathan," he growled, "or I won't let you cum."

Jonathan whimpered again, trying to push her out of his mind and out of his sight - but she wouldn't leave. Jonathon just as persistently brought him closer to orgasm, fully intending to carry out his threat.

"I know this isn't incest because he's not _really_ your brother, but isn't it still wrong? This is wrong," she reminded him. "There's something wrong with you."

" _Your_ _brother's gay_ , there's nothing wrong with whatever I'm doing," Jonathan snapped. He was sweating trying to hold back his climax. He wouldn't orgasm while she was still in the room, wouldn't enjoy his brother's hands while he could still see her.

"Jonathan, I swear to the Angel," he said, exasperated. "I _told_ you to get rid of her!" He looked to the door, determination etched on his face. " _Stay outside_ ; I can handle this. Prince Jonathan is just having another episode."

All of a sudden, Jonathan started crying. Jonathon recoiled slightly, but continued his ministrations hesitantly.

"Do you need me to kill her?" He asked him quietly. Jonathan's watery eyes were still looking over his shoulder, on a figure he could not see. "Jonathan, look at me."

Jonathan did not move.

He ceased his teasing and grabbed his face; Jonathon forced him to look at his face, and his face only. He was still breathing hard, in a panicked state. "You're not going to have another panic attack, do you understand? Look at me - _look at me._ Ignore her, she's not there. For the Angel's sake, she's _dead._ She's dead, Jonathan; you know that, don't you?"

"He's right," she said bitterly. "For once. I am dead. Are you dead?"

Jonathan didn't _feel_ dead. He could feel the wind blowing in from the windows and the weight of Jonathon above him as good as ever.

"She's dead," he confirmed in a hollow voice.

" _Good,"_ he said. "Yes. That's right. She's dead. Gone. Not like you and me, brother; we died and were brought back because we were needed alive, to accomplish this."

Jonathan nodded absently. He was pulled up into a sitting position by his brother, and handed a refilled glass of wine.

"Is she still there?" He asked gruffly.

Jonathan nodded again. She was silent now, glowering at him - but she was still there.

Jonathon stood up, grabbing a dagger that he had previously set on a nearby table. His erection still strained against its confines. "Where is she?" He held his dagger tightly, ready to attack her, if only she could be seen. "Can I kill her?"

She was a figment of his own imagination, created from the traitorous side of his mind that wouldn't let him forget what he did. Of course he couldn't kill her.

Jonathan shook his head. His brother seemed to become frustrated - as if Jonathan had never tried that before.

"Well how do you fucking stop it?" He suddenly shouted. "I want her _gone,_ Jonathan! Can't you see what she's doing to you?"

"I'm sorry-"

"I know you are," he conceded. He sighed, tired. More tired than Jonathan had ever seen him. "You didn't choose for this to happen."

"She'll leave after a while," he offered.

"This is going to shit," Jonathon muttered, tossing his dagger back onto the table. He drank more wine, and Jonathan could also see that he was troubled.

"I want to give you an heir," Jonathan suddenly blurted, wanting nothing more than to bring back his brother's queer mood. "Like we spoke about."

Jonathon snorted into his glass. "I hardly think that you really know what you're saying, brother," he said. "You're having hallucinations of a dead girl. You're not exactly the epitome of health right now."

"I can stop them."

"Do you really believe that you can achieve that?"

"You all but won a war before your thirties."

"The war's not done yet."

"It will be soon, the beasts-"

" _The_ _beasts_ are volatile. They might not work, you know that."

"Jonathon," he pleaded. "I want to do this for you."

Jonathon considered it. "If Clarissa can create a rune to stop it upon her release, then fine. Otherwise we wait until you're better." He pulled Jonathan up into his feet and kissed him in passing, as he moved to collect his paper and pens. "Now let's move on."

* * *

Jonathan shouldn't have been surprised that Jonathon was as adept at drawing as their sister was, them having the same mother and artist hands. His hands though – his hands were made to play the piano. Jonathon drew him playing once, adding in a party of demons that danced and sang around him and the instrument, as if he was controlling their movements.

He liked to draw of demons and hell, of war and death, smearing the pages in red. He was so different to Clarissa, who drew of angels and light, of peace and life – she sometimes even drew their brother in an angel form.

Jonathan had no delusions of who his brother was; he knew that he was no angel.

"I'm almost done," Jonathon muttered to himself. "Just the last details."

He wondered who was drawn around him this time, in what scene he was currently lying in. His imagination didn't span far, finding it impossible to imagine him in some other setting than the one he was currently in; where else could he be lounging on a chair, naked (his erection had passed over an hour ago, and so had Jonathon's), a chalice pressed to his lips, Jonathon's crown balanced atop his head and a dagger hanging from his fingers? He had done some similar poses for Jonathon like this in the past, but each one turned out significantly different from the other.

"Finished," he announced, standing and drinking the last of the wine.

Like Clarissa, Jonathon wouldn't show off his drawings and wouldn't invite Jonathan over to look at them – but if he came of his own accord, then he didn't mind. This wasn't something deep and special to Jonathon; it wasn't something that reminded him of happy memories, and it wasn't somewhere where he bared his soul. He just wanted to create something for once.

Jonathan stood up, placing his brother's crown on the table beside him with the dagger in his hand, and moved over to Jonathon's piece of paper to look at his creation this time.

He had assumed that it was going to be _of_ him – but it wasn't. Not exactly. That was him, sitting there on the chair that Jonathon had turned into a throne, with his crown and chalice – but he was partly skeleton, strips of flesh peeling away from his body to reveal the bone and muscle underneath, and partly Jonathon and partly Clarissa if it were at all possible. There were demons kneeling in front of him; ones in possession of human bodies, who seemed to be tearing out of them, and Greater Demons with tentacles and horns and all manner of marks, and angels – that were distorted and made grotesque by Jonathon's own interpretation - above him that seemed to be crying. A few bodies were strewn on the floor – one in particular that made Jonathan feel as if this picture was designed to mock him in some way.

Jonathon looked over at him smugly, grinning with pride. "Does she like it?" He asked, looking around the room, as if he might finally see her.

"Oh I _love_ it," she purred sarcastically. "The accuracy! Look, it's your Herondale dagger." She pointed to a weapon lying near her body, almost drowning in a pool of her blood.


	12. Release

_What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?_

* * *

 

Jonathon came to see her on what Clary assumed to be the third day.

It had, in fact, felt much longer. As if she had been there for an eternity.

At first, he didn't say anything, and Clary worried that it was actually Jonathan coming to see her again. He just stood in the door way and stared at her, while she stared back at him. Then, the body shifted in the shadow and she could see that it was much broader than Jonathan, and a distant light made sure to illuminate his white hair and glint off his crown.

He still made a show of looking kingly even when he was in the dirtiest place in the entire manor, visiting his disobedient little princess.

In contrast to his strong stature, Clary was lethargic, starving and dehydrated, being given only enough by Jonathan (who she knew was working against her brother's orders) to keep her alive. Any muscle that she had built up with Jonathon was beginning to fade, she could feel it. She was half-lucid, tired and unable to sleep despite the reprieve from the pain that it would provide; she had wanted to be awake and alert for this very moment, when she could walk out of her prison, punished, but relatively unscathed.

Yet, Clary doubted that she _could_ even stand.

She felt uncomfortable and sick, but not just because of her period or the rancid smell of faeces that still scattered the floor from when Jonathan had knocked it over on the first day. There was a demonic energy pulsing somewhere in the room, but she couldn't find it, couldn't stop it. She had lost count of the amount of times that she had vomited on herself.

She assumed that most of the wounds that Jonathan had come to inflict on her were horribly infected by now. She had expected prison life to be hard and unfavourable, but she hadn't expected to be treated like this.

"Baby Sister," he whispered quietly, still hovering in the doorway. He almost sounded as if he cared; he had never called her _baby_ sister before.

If Clary was honest, she didn't blame someone like him, who was neat and clean and far above everyone else, for not stepping foot into her cell. She knew that she wouldn't in someone else's position.

"I should've checked in on you earlier," he reflected.

She wondered how he could even see her in the darkness, almost forgetting that he had different qualities than she did. Still, she was somewhat smug that Jonathan might get into trouble for this, for breaking the king's sister behind his back.

Oh, she would get him. She would sing like a canary if he asked, sing as sweet as he ever wanted her. Her obedience would be his downfall.

"Let's get you fixed," he said, removing a witchlight from a pocket in his robes. Clary assumed that he'd send for some guards to carry her out, as pristine as he was, but he stepped into her hell and lifted her as easily as he did anything; Clary hissed in pain. She didn't exactly think that it was necessary to be carried, but she wasn't strong enough to fight her brother.

"I'm sorry," she rasped.

And she meant it. In the face of Jonathan, _he_ was the true Angel. She was thankful that he would at least take care of her.

* * *

Jonathon carried her to her own room and deposited her on her clean bed sheets. Clary felt as if she had never smelt anything as fresh as the fragrance of these sheets, never saw anything as white and spotless as the linen; she wanted to press her face into it and curl up and sleep, but the more she moved, the more her wounds wept and blood stained them and dried vomit cracked and fell. She wanted to be removed from her bed as soon as possible.

After removing his crown and robe, and rolling up the sleeves of his hunting gear – having some deathly, ethereal beauty about him in that moment – he moved into her bathroom and didn't exit for a few minutes. Clary, of course, knew what he was doing; and as much as she wanted to be clean and restored to her previous unsoiled self, she _wasn't_ prepared to strip in front of her brother _or_ let him cleanse her. He may have seemed more like an angel, but weeks down in the prisons wouldn't make Clary forget her brother's incestuous desires. To allow him to do that to her would be his dream come true.

He strutted back into her room with a grim sort of smile, twirling a stele in his hand. "Do you want an Iratze now or after you're washed?"

"You're not washing me," she said.

He seemed unconcerned. "Do you want an Iratze now or after you're washed?"

"Now," she answered. "But I'm doing it myself." She didn't trust him with a stele.

"No you're not," he quipped. "I have the stele."

"You can supervise me as I apply it," she offered.

He snorted. "You won't be able to apply it the amount of times that it's necessary yourself."

"I'll create a stronger one."

"I don't think so, Clarissa." He tapped the stele against his cheek; Clary noticed for the first time that the cuts had developed into thinning scars. "How about this: I put you in the bath and when you come out, I'll apply the Iratzes'."

"I don't think so, Jonathon," she retorted.

He frowned. "You act as if I'm _not_ trying to help you. I took you out of prison, didn't I? I'm trying to heal you, restore you. Do you want to fester?"

"You _put_ me there. You're the reason I'm in this sorry state!"

"If you were _really_ sorry then you would allow me to do this, as a penance," he said persuasively. "And in any case, this will be my consolation to the injuries that you've attained whilst there. Let yourself be treated as a princess, my lovely. You're no longer a prisoner." There was a moment of stillness from the both of them as they assessed each other. "You wouldn't even need this if you fought back; he would've stopped eventually. I taught you better than this."

Clary felt, for the first time in this wretched place, hurt by his words. The assumption that she didn't _try_ to stand up for herself – it was like he had forgotten what she was like already. When she _had_ fought back, she was put into prison. When she defended herself against Jonathan's brutal attack in prison the first time, he had starved her until she was weaker and slower and kept her in that state to make it easier for himself.

She was speechless, astounded at him; if it had been him in her place, could he have continued to stave of Jonathan's attacks whilst short of food and water for three days? Regrettably, she thought that he might.

He took her silence for resignation. "Now, let's get you into the bath."

" _Jonathon,"_ she stressed. "No."

He snarled. "Jonathan was right; you haven't learned." He paced in front of her. "Have we been too easy on you, sister?"

Clary swallowed thickly. Less than an hour out of prison and she was already being accused of disobedience. "Brother," she pleaded. There was no force in this hell that was going to send her back to the prisons so soon after escaping.

"What?" He snapped. Jonathon lifted his head higher, looking down his nose at her even more than he already was. He scoffed mirthlessly. "You don't think that I can control myself, seeing you naked and such – well, _I can._ Look at yourself - you're broken and _putrid_! Do you think that I want you like _that?"_ He sighed stressfully, rubbing a hand over his face. "By the Angel, Clarissa, I have priorities."

Clary's cheeks burned, rightfully embarrassed. "Fine." Clary had to force herself to say the words; she fisted the blankets in her hands. "Fine, Jonathon. _Fine_."

His smirk was quick. He'd been playing her.

Jonathon strutted over to where she lay on the bed and lifted her once more, moving her into the bathroom and reassuring her that he'll replace her dirtied sheets for when she was finished. "I'll only help you to remove your clothes," he said fairly. "I'm sure with two cracked ribs you can't undo your dress from the back. I can even wash your hair, if you need."

It didn't really make Clary feel any less uncomfortable about it, but she had already consented. "No," she said.

He sat her on the edge of the bath and knelt down to unlace her shoes, carefully pulling them off so as not to cause further pain to her swollen ankle, and discarding them in the corner of the bathroom. His hands then travelled up her legs to remove her tights, too close to her vagina than Clary would've liked; he lifted her up slightly as he slid them down her legs and discarded them in the same corner as her shoes. She could see him considering whether it would be pushing it too far to remove her underwear, and was glad when she watched him stand up from his crouch. She only let herself breathe then.

He waited for her to finish unclasping her necklaces and bracelets, handing them to him to place on the floor, before he offered a hand and helped her to stand as he finished unlacing her corset; Clary had already partly undone it, but, as he had stated, it was difficult to do with broken ribs. Jonathon then slipped it off her shoulders, pushing it down to the floor and helping her step out of it as she desperately hid her breasts with her free arm. He picked up the dress, tucking all the fabric and ruffles under his arm, ready to leave her as was his promise.

True to his word, he only surveyed her with mild interest; taking note of her injuries more than her almost _full_ nakedness. She was mildly impressed.

"Thank you," she whispered, avoiding his eyes which automatically sought hers at her voice. He was grinning.

His hand was on her bare hip, his calloused fingers brushing her skin. "Do you need help removing this?" He pinched the elastic of her panties, pulling it and then releasing so that it snapped against her skin. Clary wasn't sure whether he was lying or not when he said that he didn't want her like this, but she fairly convinced that it was the former and she didn't want to test the limits any further. "Or am I done here?"

"You're done here," she replied in a clipped voice.

He laughed. "Fine," he said. "But maybe we could bathe together sometime. Like we would've in our childhood."

"We're not children, Jonathon," she reminded him.

"Are we not children of Jonathan Shadowhunter? Or of Ithuriel and Lilith?" He asked playfully.

With that question posed, he swiftly kissed her on the cheek and left the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

* * *

When Clary left the bath, the water was almost black with dirt and had flecks of dried vomit and blood floating around in it. She couldn't see the pus, but she assumed that it was there.

She wrapped the towel tightly around her, wincing as it brushed against and irritated open wounds, but holding it securely in place so that Jonathon didn't get any extra treats. Clary walked out the bathroom to see her brother, sprawled out on her bed, the clean linen, as promised, already in place; he was throwing his stele in the air and catching it, and Clary regretted that she wasn't in a better position to snatch it and run. She could easily portal out of there and never have to be sent back into the prison; she could escape into any other country and hide away from any of his demons.

What was most notable, however, was the fact that he had removed his shoes and socks and unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt. It was the most casual Clary had ever seen him, and she was marginally surprised to see that his feet were as human-looking as the rest of him seemed to be.

"You took long enough," he commented when he saw her, hovering by the foot of her bed.

"Mhm," she hummed. Truth be told, she had spent over (what she presumed to be half an hour) in that bath, and she still didn't feel as if she were sparkling. She at least spent some of her time behind the closed door drying herself, so as not to give him an accidental glimpse of skin.

He looked at her curiously at her vague response, moving off the bed. Jonathon indicated the floor. "Lie down there," he said. "Spread your towel on the floor or something, and lie on it."

She clutched the towel harder to herself. "What?"

"For them to work best, they need to be near the heart, as you know – but I doubt that you would let me do that." He paused, a gleeful look coming over his face. "Yet. I doubt that you would let me do that _yet_."

Clary didn't think his assumption was funny.

He rolled his eyes, vaguely unsurprised that she didn't respond to his joke. "I'm going to put them on your back," he clarified. "There's nothing intimate about your back, is there? I saw most of it when I undressed you earlier."

She gritted her teeth and indicated that he turned around, which he complied to – albeit, not without scoffing. She didn't particularly care whether he turned around whilst she was laying the towel down or not; he was going to see her naked backside anyway, when he was applying the runes – and, as much as she was loath to admit it, he had already seen most of her back in the bathroom. Clary was slightly terrified that he might interpret this whole situation as her obedience and push her even further than this – which really would be something – and, even worse, she was scared that if she didn't oppose his commands again, she'd eventually forget and become the new Jonathan.

Yet, if she _did_ do that, she was back in the prisons, and she couldn't help anyone there – and she sure as hell couldn't help herself. _Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place_.

"Okay," she told Jonathon.

She quickly felt his presence beside her, kneeling on the floor. Clary tucked her face into the crook of her elbow, not wanting to look at him as he put his hands all over her, not wanting to see whatever gleeful look he was sporting. She felt the blissful heat of the stele as he pressed it into her shoulder, pressing his hand down on her lower back for balance; she tried not to squirm, as close as it was to her bare ass.

"Surely it can't be easy breathing like that," he commented as he finished the rune.

Of course it wasn't easy to breathe when the floor was pushing her broken ribs further inwards – not that it was easy to breathe while lying face-down on the floor away, but the injuries made it worse. "I'm fine," she muttered.

He moved his stele further down her back, to a free space, and drew another. "There might not be enough space on your back for all of these," he said. "And your shoulder is dislocated. Did you know? You must be in an extraordinary amount of pain, having that left alone for days. I'm going to need to pop it back afterwards."

As it happened, Clary hadn't even realised that Jonathan had kicked it out of its socket. Jonathon suggested that it must have been painful, but with her entire body being in an extraordinary amount of sharp, throbbing pain, it didn't exactly stand out. She had thought that it was no more than a simple break in her collarbone or arm.

"Oh," she said. Clary lifted her head up and looked at the back of herself as well as she could; she instantly regretted it, seeing the way that Jonathon's eyes were feasting on her bare skin as some of the injuries began to heal due to the rues. Yet, he was right; five years on the run and fighting with the rebels meant that her back was practically full with runes. "Put them on my legs, then."

He seemed offended at the suggestion of drawing runes on _her_ legs. "You should keep your arms and legs free of runes," he suggested.

Clary scoffed. She had heard _that_ before. "So I don't look like a proper Shadowhunter?" She retorted. "Every other Shadowhunter had runes on their arms and legs – even _you._ When the rest of my body runs out of space, what am I supposed to do?"

He didn't vocally agree to it, but it was obvious when he pressed it to her upper thigh, using it as an excuse to place a hand on her arse. His fingers curled against it, possibly the only piece of herself that was free of injury – other than a few bruises perhaps.

His long, beautiful, artistic fingers. Their mother's fingers. Not a day went by in this manor when Clary wondered whether he used them for their true purposes, for they weren't the typical hands for war.

Did he play piano like Jace used to? Did he _draw?_ The notion seemed so absurd to her, but maybe not entirely impossible.

She was brought out of her thoughts quickly. "Stop touching me," she hissed, blindly trying to smack his hand away.

"Soft," he murmured happily. He gently slapped her arse again, watching it jiggle.

"Jonathon," she warned. "I let you have this one thing, don't push it."

He hummed, removing his hand as she wanted. "I wouldn't forget your place if I were you," he said casually. As casual as someone might point out that it's raining. "I am the king still, and as such, I'm not prone to being ordered about by _a princess._ If you were a queen, I might; but not a princess."

She gritted her teeth and fell silent. He hadn't hurt her yet; she wasn't going to risk his temper.

His hands slipped down to the apex of her thighs, his hand accidentally (if she could believe it) ghosting close to and brushing against her sex as he pressed the stele into her upper thigh again. "You once promised me that you'd kill yourself before I have the chance to lay one 'filthy finger' on you," he chuckled quietly to himself. "I touched you way before this, and yet, here you are. Alive."

"Kill me then," she suggested. "You said that you don't tolerate empty promises."

"I was giving you an opportunity to revoke that promise," he said. "Besides, I said that I wouldn't be the one to do it, dear sister." He moved further down her leg still. "So, do you want to revoke it? Being touched isn't all that bad, now is it?"

"I still hold true to dying before carrying your child," she conceded.

"Ah, so you agree." He finished the rune with a flourish, choosing to focus on the hidden meaning of her reply instead. "Are my hands less filthy than you had originally imagined?"

"Your hands are covered in the blood of Shadowhunters."

"And what of you?" He retorted. "I wonder, sweet sister, how many people died trying to protect you."

Once again, she fell silent. Those deaths were ones that she would always carry; even those that were metaphorical, like the death of Jace and the rebirth of Jonathan. She was sorry that he ever had to go through that.

"I'm done," he announced. He stood from his crouch as she continued to lay there like a slug. "Have you ever had your shoulder dislocated?"

"No."

"I'll get the absinthe while you get dressed," he said. "Be careful with that shoulder."

* * *

Now that everything else was mostly healed, the pain from her dislocation was more apparent. It was a struggle to dress herself in one of the nightgowns that Jonathon had provided her with, but she bit down on her lip to stop from screaming on crying, splitting the soft flesh with her teeth, and got her arm through the arm-hole. Some blood dripped down and stained the white material, but as long as she was clothed, finally, she didn't care.

What she _did_ care about though, was that Jonathon had apparently thought it'd be a good idea that her first proper taste of hydration to be of his beloved Green Fairy, without any food to line her stomach. She remembered what it was like the last time she had it, the way it burned as it slid past her throat and how quickly it had left her intoxicated, providing quick relief from her injuries. Nothing had happened that time, but Jonathon had already teased more limits this time around without it, and now that she _wasn't_ 'broken and putrid', he might give it a good shot.

He returned only a few minutes after Clary had dressed, the alcohol in one hand and a towel in another. An unknown Shadowhunter trailed behind him; Clary watched him dubiously.

He presented his items to her from across the room. "You could _dull_ the pain," he said, lifting the absinthe and then the towel, "or you could save yourself 'dignity' and more damage and bite down on this." He shrugged, walking closer. "Alternatively, you could get wasted beforehand and bite down on the towel as well, because you still may scream."

Clary knew a good opportunity when she was presented with one. "The towel," she said, holding out her hand expectantly, carefully watching the Shadowhunter that he seemed to be ignoring.

He dropped it in her grasp, and opened the bottle for himself; Clary didn't know how he could drink so much of it so fast and remain composed.

"And what of him?" Clary asked.

"Hm? Oh, don't mind him" Jonathon looked over his shoulder and beckoned the man forward. "I need an assistant for this, and I doubt that you'd want Jonathan here. I know there's no love lost between you two."

Clary was suddenly nervous that Jonathan didn't know that she had been released, but calmed when she realised that she could not be hurt for it. He wasn't the king.

She placed it in her mouth when he was ready to push it back into place.

"This has been left so long it might not go back easily," he warned. "And it may pop out again in the future, okay?"

Clary nodded.

"Now, you mustn't move at all during this. Yes? Good."

The Shadowhunter that he had brought with him moved so that he was directly facing her and lifted her arm until it was horizontal to the floor, ignoring her whimpering and wincing. He firmly pulled her arm towards him, causing Clary to bite down on the towel.

She didn't particularly care if she looked pathetic in front of this Shadowhunter anyway – she didn't think he was part of her battalion.

"Put your right hand on your left collarbone, and don't move your arm out of position for one second." Clary did as he asked.

Jonathon then moved to the side of her, placing his thumb on her shoulder and feeling around the swollen area. He applied pressure on her shoulder blade, moving it towards her right-side; Clary was once again glad for the towel. His other hand suddenly clamped down on her left shoulder as well, and she winced, momentarily jerking out of position. "I said don't move, Clarissa," he growled.

Nothing happened at first, so Jonathon commanded harsher movements; the Shadowhunter pulled harder and he pushed firmer, and then Clary's scream was muffled as she cried out when her shoulder moved back into place. She threw away her towel; she felt slightly sick.

The Shadowhunter released her and was dismissed.

Jonathon continued to prod her shoulder behind her, checking that it had moved properly. When he finished, he walked to the front of her and took her face in his hands. "You're going to be sick," he remarked.

Clary ran back into the bathroom and heaved up whatever was still sitting in her stomach, the onslaught of pain too great for her to handle. She regretted not taking the absinthe, despite the fact she may have been throwing up worse than she was now.

She heard him laugh from the bedroom, probably at her apparently low pain threshold, and then exited.

* * *

 

When she was finally done heaving, she washed out her mouth with tap water and walked back into the bedroom to see that he had returned.

He, once again, was lounging on her bed and drinking absinthe. He had put two more glasses, which she presumed was for her, on her tableside cabinet along with a plate of food. One contained a clear liquid that Clary hoped was water and not Jonathon's seemingly endless supply of alcohol, and another was obviously the Green Fairy.

"I think there's some things we need to discuss," he said, "that can only be discussed over food and drink."


	13. Crux

_"The greatest obstacle to discovery is not ignorance - it is the illusion of knowledge"_

* * *

This was the first time that they had all been together in a very long time.

Jonathon stood tall and powerfully in between Jonathan and Clarissa, who were carefully distanced from each other. They avoided each other's eye contact as much as possible, lest their rage bubbles over and a scrap breaks out in front of their brother and king and they're further punished for their actions. The tension was palpable. Jonathon felt like a father, trying to resolve the deep hatred between his children, more than he did their brother at that moment.

Though, he supposed, he was the father of this kingdom.

In any case, his heirs had been warring ever since Clarissa had fully recovered from the injuries she had received from prison, and strengthened from eating properly again. He had promised to rebuke Jonathan for straying from orders to sate her, but his few bruises and split lip didn't seem enough revenge for Clarissa – or, as he had also heard it, it wasn't enough for Jonathan, and he had tried to attack Clarissa again for putting himself in a bad position with Jonathon. For days after, he had been alerted to a series of scraps that had happened or were in the process of being broken up, as if that one event triggered the collapse of any relationship and civility that they ever once had and were now behaving as animals, trying to prove that _they_ are the real alpha.

He had had enough of their power displays.

When Jonathon envisioned the creation of his new kingdom, with his sister and brother, he imagined that they would easily learn to get along with each other; but this was completely unplanned. Sure, he imagined that there might have been _some_ rivalry – but not the kind of competitive, dominating stances that they were taking on with one another. Not the kind of injuries and chaos that they were creating with their bloodlust. Jonathon had spent many of his nights attending to both of them in their separate rooms, drawing Iratzes all over their bodies and pushing their shoulders back into place, only for them to acquire more injuries the next day.

He supposed, looking in hindsight, that this war could've easily been avoided if Jonathon had given limits to Jonathan on the amount of physical injury that he could've inflicted on his sister – or even limited Jonathan to only providing her with her daily meals, so that she might associate Jonathan in a nicer light than she currently was now, and had one of his demon guards beat away her lack of submission. Still, he would've thought that her week in nothing more than a windowless cell that was smaller than even some of the supply cupboards dotted around the manor would've disorientated her enough for her to be an easy target for Jonathan without having to cut her food and water supplies. Jonathon was mildly surprised that Clarissa genuinely believed, without doubt, that she had spent nothing more than three days in that cell.

Did she think him generous and fair? Jonathon thought she was sweet for such a thing, but horribly naïve. She needed to learn how to be as manipulative as him and loose her naivety, or to learn her submissive place in this kingdom. Jonathan had done the latter, and relatively quickly; in fact, they had spent the majority of the week that Clarissa had spent in prison continuing to enjoy each other – that is, until the stupid dead girl began to cloud his mind again, and he'd send Jonathan away, frustrated with this chink in his creation's armour, with Jonathan's apparent hamartia.

He didn't understand why it had to be her, of all people, out of everyone who had died under Jonathan's hands before that.

With Jonathan's hallucinations in mind and Clarissa's less extensive training, they both were eventually banned from carrying weapons around the manor, in case one of them accidentally slipped up and gained far worse wounds than a simple gash in the arm. A little while later, he had to issue them with a personal guard, but even that was close to fruitless. Even with careful plans for separation – sending Jonathan out more frequently to battles, to patrol the boarders and to look after the beasts; keeping Clarissa for longer in training (which she had agreed to restarting the night she was released from prison) and creating more drills and quotas for her battalion – they still managed to find each other in dark corners.

They were more like him than either of them had thought, and deep in their minds, Jonathon knew, they still denied it.

"It has come to my attention," Jonathon said, steepling his fingers, "of just how far your abhorrence of each other lies."

Jonathan and Clarissa glared at each other from beneath their lashes, avoiding eye contact with their brother and trying not to seem as if they were sulking. _This is your fault,_ they both thought to themselves.

"Well, a house divided cannot stand - and we are but one house. You both are going to sort this out so we can all efficiently work together. If proving which one is superior will cease it, then by all means, say, and we can begin."

Both of their heads turned to look inquisitively at him, intrigued by his offer. For the past month or so he had been trying to prevent them fighting – but now, _he was allowing it._ They looked like they wanted to speak, to pry more answers from his impatient lips, but they kept quiet, suddenly shy in the promise of an ultimate winner.

It wasn't Jonathon's favourite idea by any means; in fact, he worried that the definite outcome of a winner – of someone superior, inferior only to him – may cause even more fights in the future, increasingly violent fights that would eventually rid him of one of his heirs. He worried that their increasing bloodlust and power hunger might eventually threaten his own position in the future, like it had done in all monarchies before his.

At their prolonged silence, Jonathon leaned forward on the table and lowered his voice threateningly: "If you're going to fight, you're going to fight under my supervision and my rules." He looked at each of them imploringly; they looked away, knowing that they had disappointed their brother. " _I_ will declare the winner, if there is one. No one will dispute me and my decision. Whoever wins doesn't matter; this hierarchy and need for dominance is just something that you've created in your heads to get back at each other, because, for whatever reason, you are unable to cooperate as _one_ unit."

"But I _am_ superior!" Clarissa burst out. "I am your _biological sister! I'm_ next in line, not-"

"The only reason _you're_ next in line is because you're of my blood," Jonathon interrupted, carefully watching Jonathan out of the corner of his eye. He seemed as if he was going to interrupt and begin an argument of 'my horse is bigger than your horse'. "If Jonathan was of the Morgenstern descent too, then it would be him. "If the problem between you is who will be next to inherit the throne, then I can make it simple and remove you both and I'll find some new heirs, leaving you both to deal with the demons alone."

Jonathan trembled; he remembered what that was like.

"Essentially, you are _both_ next in line" he continued, "and I will leave it down to my court when I die, if it causes so much trouble, to choose which one of you shall inherit the crown. Now, are we going to solve this today or will you both be placed under bedroom arrest indefinitely?"

* * *

A wooden staff was thrust into each of their hands.

Clarissa seemed to observe it with mild distaste, whilst Jonathan gave it a more gleeful look, twirling it in his hands; this was one of the first things that Jonathan was trained with, whereas Clarissa had yet to progress on to using weapons. This was the one thing that gave Jonathan the upper hand, but he was sure that his sister would be able to out how to use it effectively quickly.

"If you are thrown out of this circle or you fall out of this circle," Jonathon explained, finishing the ring that he had drawn around them in his own blood, "then you have lost. If you become unconscious then you've lost. If I suspect more than three offences of foul play, then you're out." Jonathon leaned on his own staff, standing on the perimeter of the circle.

Him and his siblings had ditched their customary royal outfits for their traditional hunting gear, and left their crowns and tiara on the side. He had purposely and thoroughly checked each of them for any hidden weapons in their gear before they had even entered the training room; he made sure that he was the only one carrying a stele and that neither of them had drawn any recent runes for stamina or otherwise. The ones he did find, he scarred so that they no longer worked as they were intended to.

"I can stop this fight whenever I want," he continued. "At any point you can surrender."

Neither of their expressions looked like they were prepared to surrender to the other under any circumstance. Jonathon could see this fight continuing for days.

He stepped back from the ring as their feet slid into their own fighting stances and their hands trembled with anticipation, ready to swing their staffs up at any given moment, and strike one another.

"Begin," he announced.

Jonathan brought his staff down towards Clarissa's head without missing a beat, swinging it so powerfully that a gust of wind lifted a part of Jonathon's fringe. Clarissa, as was expected, brought hers up to defend herself, her body vibrating at the shock of the force; no sooner had that happened, when both of their staffs were withdrawn and were striking at one another again. She swung her staff around to check him on the ribs, but he quickly blocked her, almost knocking her staff out of her hands at the force of his defence, and then engaged her in a parry; he moved slowly, not quite showing the full speed at which he could strike, as if he was warming Clarissa up or understanding how much she knew about this kind of fighting.

Jonathan suddenly thrust the end of his staff towards Clarissa's stomach, and she knocked it away, copying Jonathan's movements from before; however, she regrettably left herself open for attack by keeping her knees bent for a second too long, and allowed Jonathan to drop to the floor and knock her feet out from underneath her.

Clarissa only barely managed to stay within the ring; he could see how disappointed Jonathan was.

She sprung back onto her feet quickly, as he had continuously demanded her to in their own training sessions, and reassumed her stance, waiting for Jonathan to come to her again.

* * *

Jonathon used his own staff to break their own apart. He pushed them away from each other, back to the edges of the circle. "Stop teasing each other," he snapped. "You're two able warriors - _not_ a cat and mouse. Start again."

Their staffs met in the middle again, and Jonathan immediately twisted his to try to loosen Clarissa's grip on hers. It didn't work.

This was the second time that he had started them off again, after they had spent more than a minute, circling each other in the ring, their staffs crossed and teasingly rubbing up and down each other; the next time it happened, they were both getting a punishment. So far, they hadn't played as dirty as he had originally assumed they would; Jonathon had only cautioned each of them at least twice, and called them out for even less fouls and disagreement with his ruling.

They were competitive, he had discovered - much more competitive with each other than they ever were with him alone. Jonathan had begun a dispute with him after he was convinced that Clarissa had stepped out of the ring, and another when he continued to beat Clarissa after she had been thrown on the floor for the third time, complaining that if it were the other way around, he would expected Jonathan to defend himself. Clarissa, on the other hand, had almost crushed Jonathan's windpipe by striking at his throat and so had to be cautioned for using tactics that she knew to causes serious injury or death; she seemed betrayed, but Jonathon didn't remember ever stating that they were going to fight to the death. That wouldn't have done at all.

When he focused back on the fight, Jonathan was on the floor, bruised, panting and sweating, and bleeding from a small cut on his temple and his split lip that had been reopened; he had swiped his staff underneath Clarissa's feet again, only for her to jump in time to miss it. Yet, Jonathan had moved his staff behind Clarissa's legs, and pulled them out from under her before her feet had barely touched the ground.

Her eyes closed, stilling lying on the floor, and she gulped down as much as she could due to being rightfully exhausted and winded from the fall. She too had been injured in these past couple of hours; though she had roughly the same problems as Jonathan (bruising and swelling, as well as some possible sprains), Jonathon was partially convinced that one or two of her fingers had been well and truly broken from being in the wrong places when Jonathan would strike her staff down. He hoped that his siblings found these injuries worth it.

Her ponytail brushed the outer edge of the circle, but they had already established that her hair doesn't count for being outside the ring.

Jonathan paced like a tiger, waiting for her to stand back up. "Jonathon," he complained. "She's obviously buying time. She should get up straight away."

"He's right," Jonathon said; he too paced the circle. "Come on, Clarissa. Be a good sport. Get up and continue."

She used her staff to push herself back up, and they, once again, reassumed their stances.

* * *

Jonathan locked his staff around hers and pulled, trying to take it out of her grasp.

Jonathon saw the fleeting panic in her eyes as it slipped from her sweaty grasp.

Clarissa quickly moved her hand to the top of her staff and flipped herself over his body, pulling Jonathan's staff up and out of his grasp instead. It was too far away from Clarissa for her to take it away from him, it lying near to his previously fallen body, which he scrambled to get. When she landed, Jonathon saw that she smiled to herself, astounded and proud with the feat that she just pulled off, whilst Jonathan was once again pissed off.

Jonathon was swelling with pride at the sight of her somersault too – not to mention it stimulated his arousal and ever-growing desire for his sister. From that alone, he thought she deserved to win, but Jonathan was also desirably strong during this – and was, of course, the one that seemed to be winning from the amount of hits he had landed on his sister. "Nice manoeuvre, Clarissa," he purred. "Jonathan, on your feet."

Jonathan ground his teeth and stood up. His twirled his staff again and advanced towards Clarissa; he struck her in five successive movements, disorientating her by starting with her head first and ending with a winding strike on her stomach. He backed away straight after, posing for a defence. His heel skirted along the edge of the circle of Jonathon's blood, which was now beginning to smudge and fade from their sweat puddles and repeated brushing against it.

Then, Clarissa was on him, and he easily kept his ground, finally managing to successfully twist her staff out of her hands and letting it roll along the floor. She reclaimed it, and suddenly Jonathan's eyes were glazed over and he seemed to be seeing, but not really; Clarissa came at him and he tripped over his own feet trying to step backwards, falling out of the circle and breathing heavily.

Jonathon quickly intervened, stepping in between them as Clarissa paused curiously, wondering what had just happened to her brother when she had yet to touch him, when he had seemed so fearless and skilled one minute and then, like a child, fell over his own feet trying to escape from something. She dropped her staff as Jonathan continued to gasp for air, and stepped back bewildered and scared.

"What's wrong with him?" She asked quietly. All the time that she had been here, she had never known Jonathan as anything but strong; but Jonathon had seen every aspect of his character. Sometimes, there were still flashes of Jace and his old personality, but as if its broken bits had been crammed into his shell haphazardly, and some parts no longer matched up as they once were supposed to; those were the days when he was the true epitome of broken – but still, Jonathon didn't mind. They were brothers now. "Is he-?"

"Your brother isn't well," Jonathon responded just as quietly, as if his quiet voice could've made it less true. He knelt down beside his brother and placed his hand on Jonathan's chest, trying to regulate his breathing; he slapped him around the face and demanded his focus. "Go to your room. I'll speak to you later."

Clarissa hesitated. "But do I-?" _Win._

Jonathon ground his teeth. "Go to your room or be escorted to your room, Clarissa," he snapped. " _Your brother isn't well._ Do you have no feeling at all for your Angel Boy?"

She all but rushed out of the training room at his words, not wanting to be a nuisance any longer. He saw her linger in the doorway from the corner of his eye for a moment, observing his treatment of Jonathan before detaching herself completely.

Jonathon didn't know how he could ever make them see eye-to-eye again, but he didn't particularly mind as long as he was at the top of their priorities, as if they were forming a triangle. He seemed to be the only mutual thing that was between them, and as long as they were no longer working against each other in ruthless sabotage or revenge, then they could do whatever they wanted for him individually – like worshipping him and heeding his words; like creating runes for him, providing him with heirs, and ending this bloody war together.

Perhaps Angels couldn't work together; as if they were Mundanes with conflicting personalities, two Angels were too free of will to ever cooperate – but with a demon, like himself, they worked perfectly.


	14. Comprehension

_"One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries"_

* * *

A month ago...(at the end of Chapter 12, Release):

_Clary spluttered. "You're_ not _going to punish him?"_

_He sighed, rolling his eyes. His lips were quirked in a small smile. "I didn't say that," he said gently._

_"_ _But that's what you meant," she accused._

_He looked amused, and stretched languidly. "I_ said _that I wasn't going to punish him_ severely. _Like what you want," Jonathon said fairly. "I'm sure he didn't mean any of what he did; his temperament as of late has been quite volatile. Not his fault, of course – but nor is it mine. As I've said to you before, you shouldn't be so hard on him."_

 _"_ _It's_ your kingdom _that's changed his entire personality."_

_He smirked. "It hasn't changed yours though, has it?" She didn't even so much as grin; Jonathon's smirk faded and he became disgruntled. "Why do you think we've kept telling you that he's not 'Jace' anymore?"_

_Clary kept quiet, upset and angry. Finally, after a minute or two, she said, "He beat me up, unfairly, like a coward."_

_Jonathon shrugged. "Maybe you deserved it."_

_"_ _I didn't deserve it," she persisted. "What could I have done wrong to him? I was living out my stay like a good prisoner."_

_"_ _He's a good guy," Jonathon said, drinking his absinthe. "I like him, he's a good brother. You just have to understand him."_

_"_ _Oh, well that's going to be tough," Clary said dryly, chewing on a biscuit that he had brought her. "I don't even fucking know who he is. He's not Jace."_

_"_ _No, this is Jonathan; he's your brother, and you will understand him."_ _He turned to her on the bed, catching her eye and holding it. "Do you understand me, Clarissa? This isn't going to carry on without repercussions."_

_"_ _You're my brother," Clary stated. "Not him. Not anymore."_

_Jonathon sat straighter at her words, looking discreetly smug. "He is," Jonathon insisted. "You can't choose family, Little Sister; but you can choose whether you stay out of prison or not." He tugged on one of her red curls. "I don't want to put you back, and I'm sure you don't want to_ go _back."_

_"_ _Why couldn't I be under your charge? You wouldn't have-"_

_"_ _Wouldn't I?" He cut in, grinning wolfishly. "It could've been worse. You don't know me at all, my sweet. Where do you think Jonathan learned it from?"_

_Clary looked personally offended, and perhaps slightly betrayed. Above all, she seemed confused about where it left her in the scheme of things. They were both rightly evil, but how did it come to the point where she, perhaps naively, trusted one more than the other? How is it that she came to trust the demon over the fallen angel?_

_He rolled over completely now, and took her hands in his; Clary put up little resistance. "I do apologise for our brother's behaviour to you in prison, but you must understand that you're both here for the long run," Jonathon said sweetly to her. "You aren't ever escaping here, my darling. This is your life now – and your brother is a part of it, whether you like it or not."_

_Clary sighed. "You're still not going to punish him?"_

_Jonathon shrugged sloppily, withdrawing his hands. "A slap on the knuckles, but nothing like this." He pointed to the silver scars lining his cheek. "He's been through a lot. I wouldn't want to…" A shadow passed over his face, and he looked troubled. Clary stayed quiet. "I wouldn't want to damage either of you," he finished gently._

_She kept her scoff to herself._

_"_ _Jonathan will be pleased that you managed to convince me to lay off him," Jonathon told her after a few moments, smiling secretly. "I'm sure that'll repair some damage."_

* * *

"You said that Jonathan was…unwell," Clary said nervously. She clasped and unclasped her hands, watching him carefully. "What – exactly - is wrong with him?"

Opposite her, Jonathon was fingering an ornate knife at his desk, his eyebrows furrowed and his forehead creased. His elbows rested on the desk, and he gave off a look of contemplativeness, but Clary knew him to be quietly fuming and agitated. She didn't particularly know what she was doing there, in his office; he hadn't said a word to her since she arrived, and had hardly looked at her. She had walked in to see him as he currently was, and he had barely moved since.

"I've never heard anyone so pleased to hear that their sibling has an illness," he said distantly. He fixed her with a cold look. "I'm not, and I'm the demon."

She tore her eyes away. "I just want to know what's wrong with him," Clary said again.

"So you can exploit him?" He retorted. Clary had never heard him sound so protective before. "So that you can torment him, as he once did to you? So… _what_?"

Her eyes pricked with tears. "Maybe I can understand him," she murmured.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Will it help you to understand him? Truly? Or is this some sort of ploy?"

She shook her head, wiping away tears that had escaped. "It's not," she promised. "He just looked so…"

"Broken?" Jonathon supplied. "He's not. Broken would imply that he cannot be fixed – but he can and will be."

Clary understood that she would create a rune for him, to be restored back to his former self, by the way that Jonathon looked at her; but with this apparent weakness, she wasn't quite sure if she wanted to.

"He's merely unwell. For now."

Clary nodded, still hovering in the corner of the office, by his bookcases.

Jonathon seemed to clutch his knife too tightly for one moment, and then released it completely a second later and scratched the stubble on his face. To Clary, he might look like a worried parent, but it was a mere façade. In his mind, he was only thinking of what a failure Jonathan was to him as a soldier; he hadn't thought that his hamartia would've been vivid hallucinations from something as insignificant as that moment - something that had become a part of ordinary life by then. He hadn't perfected Jonathan in the way that was necessary anymore.

He worried that when he left to fight that he might have a breakdown on the battlefield and die before he could ever resolve the problem. He worried that when it was time, he might make the same mistake with Clarissa, and be left with nothing.

He didn't even know what he did wrong. Jonathan had experienced worse things.

"I _think_ he may have PTSD," he said finally. "He…hallucinates. Becomes temperamental some days – as I said to you a week or so ago, I believe."

" _PTSD?"_ She repeated, astounded.

"Post-traumatic stress disorder," he muttered.

She frowned. Clary, of course, knew what PTSD was and meant; but she didn't think it wise to flippantly inform him of that. "How?" She asked cautiously. If there was one thing that she knew, it couldn't have been from fighting; Jace had fought countless times, killed countless demons, vampires, werewolves, and had showed no signs of it before. "From war?"

Unless it didn't come from killing a demon or Downworlder. Unless it didn't come from killing at all.

He scoffed humorously. "Jonathan used to be the General of the Shadowhunters, as you know," he recounted. "I'm sure you've been wondering how it came for him to be removed."

"Because of his PTSD," she said.

" _No."_ He paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, he was going to be removed before he developed that anyway. His PTSD was merely a trigger. I was going to remove him as General because he's much better _suited_ for war than for training," he said. "War is where he finds peace. As I'm sure you knew."

 _So he wasn't actively fighting when he developed it_ , she thought. "I don't understand," Clary said, shaking her head. "How did he develop PTSD if not in war?"

"He developed it whilst he was General," he told her. "A melee of sorts was how generals used to be elected. If I hadn't elected _you,_ you would either be dead or you would've bloodied your own hands with the blood of a Shadowhunter."

That made more sense to Clary. Killing his own kind, his own fellow vigilantes, must've been traumatic and stressful for him – but surely he must've known that that was what awaited for anyone who put themselves forward to become General. Was he even still partly Jace during this time? If he wasn't, then she didn't understand why Jonathan had developed such a thing, as inhuman as he was.

"I thought the Shadowhunters were important to you," she accused. "How could you just let them have a bloodbath?"

"It was just a friendly competition," he said airily, brushing her comments off easily.

"They _died!"_ Clary was surprised that there were still as many Shadowhunters in the battalion as there was now.

"Oh, look," he said amusedly. "The Angel has returned." He sighed at her continuous glare, and drummed his fingers on the desk. "It was survival of the fittest, Clarissa. What easier way to purge the weak and ill-suited to war than by this? It's a realistic taste of what awaits outside: Shadowhunter versus Shadowhunter."

She showed signs of continuing her protest, so Jonathon continued.

" _Anyway,"_ he said. "When Jonathan developed PTSD, it was coming up to his _second_ melee. He had killed around eight of the soldiers in a few incidents previous to it – most had nothing to do with the elections. I don't think that was the cause," he said. At the look of horror on Clary's face, he then added then added, "By accident, of course. I don't think he _purposely_ killed anyone." He had some decency to look vaguely embarrassed about the problems that his monster had created, but it was only fleeting. "Apart from in the melee – that was on purpose."

"You let him _murder-"_

"To be perfectly honest, Clarissa, I didn't particularly care what he did at the beginning as long as it was working." He laughed lightly and quickly, all guilt or embarrassment vanishing as if he had never felt it.

She ground her teeth together, frustrated that he was dancing around the topic. " _So what happened?"_

Clary noted that he looked like a proud father. "It was the night Jonathan won," he explained, becoming serious once again. "It was…" He seemed at a loss for words. "They all _loved_ Jonathan, all _hated_ and were paranoid of the last candidate. He had his Herondale dagger in his hands and – you should've seen the way that he killed her, Sister – it was so succinct, it was almost enviable."

She wondered whether there would ever be a day when she learned something new about Jonathan and not feel sick. "So _she_ was the one to turn Jonathan mad," Clary said. "Her death, I mean. Her murder."

"I would rephrase your wording, but, yes," he said solemnly. "It was the last death that changed him. Unpredictable, really. Never would've thought it'd be because of _that_."

"Well," Clary said slowly, "who was she? Perhaps that was why he…developed PTSD."

He seemed strangely cautious. "Clarissa, my dear, I don't pretend to know." He shrugged, reflecting back on all the joy he had had at the beginning when he found them all. "Something or other." He waved his hand about. "Her name escapes me."

"How do you _not_ know? _Surely_ you know who is in the battalion – and, more importantly, who dies."

"As you very well know, my lovely, I'm not in charge of them and therefore I don't know who any of them are. I only learn the names of the deceased so that I may make a display of commemorating them."

 _Liar,_ Clary thought. He would converse with every single member at their celebrations; she had heard him recall countless names. "You're lying to me," she told him.

"I'm not," he said brusquely. "Perhaps I'm merely withholding information until I understand your intentions better."

"Why?"

"Seems suspicious, I know," he conceded, turning charming all of a sudden, now that he was about to pitch his plans to her. "But I just need you to create a _permanent_ rune for me, to block it. To cure his PTSD, if you will."

"Why withhold a name? Surely that's insignificant in the scheme of things," she said.

He seemed to weigh the statement. "All names have power, darling. For instance: Morgenstern are those who are _in_ power. If you ever escaped and found one of the last rebel groups, and told them that you were Clarissa _Morgenstern_ , they have the power to murder you there and then just because of that. You're linked with me now. And Jonathan."

"I don't understand what that has to do with _her_ name."

"I don't want you to choose to help based on whether you knew them or not. I don't want you to bring her name up in front of Jonathan in some twisted form of revenge; I don't want any more torment or teasing on either of your parts."

She could understand where he was coming from, but that didn't make her any less curious. "I promise that I'll still help him," she said.

Jonathon snorted. "Some promises you keep, and some you break. I can't be sure, unfortunately for you." He drummed his fingers on the table. "If you wish to know so badly, perhaps you should ask Jonathan himself."

"No."

He smiled. "I didn't think so. Well, that leaves you with one option, then."

"Create the rune," she said. "But what if he deserves this state?"

"He's suffering," he said shortly. "He deserves to suffer?"

Clary stayed quiet, and Jonathon quickly soured.

"You're no angel," he told her.

"No one is anymore."

"He could die if he hallucinates on the battlefield," he stated. "That'd be your fault." His lip curled. "I need him."

 _Good,_ she thought. "So create your own rune," she suggested.

"Healing isn't exactly demonic, Clarissa," he growled. "I removed him to protect everyone else; the only deaths I want are from the enemy. If I could do it myself, I would."

"I _don't_ understand why-"

"No you don't understand! You don't _want_ to understand," he accused. "We're playing the game of kings, here. You make sacrifices for the greater good, and you protect. You use the most effective pieces; you _protect_ the most effective pieces. It's time you start playing, and maybe you'll understand. You and Jonathan are my most effective piece.

"I don't want to play that game," she said.

He snorted. "And you say we're not children anymore." He paused. "So what do you want to play?" He raised an eyebrow, horribly sarcastic. "Happy Families? I'm afraid I don't know that game."

"You're a bastard," she spat.

"That doesn't matter to me. Not everyone likes a king." He picked up his knife again and resumed fiddling with it. "You're a bitch."

She seemed surprised. "Why am I the bitch?"

"Perhaps," he drawled, gleefully turning the knife in his hands, "if you had arrived earlier, you could've stopped this all from happening. Now look where you are."

"Stop 'all' _what?"_ She said. She didn't like the thought of it being purely her fault that anything had happened; as the king, surely everything was _his_ fault."

He looked at her, dreadfully amused. His face lightened with the knowledge of an awful secret. "Draw the rune," he suggested. "You promised you would."

"I said I'd do it _with_ the name."

His eyes lost their pleading quality and hardened. Jonathon slammed his hands on his desk, causing Clary to jump. Some of the things littering his desk fell to the floor. "For the Angel's sake, _you're_ his sister. She's dead anyhow, what does it matter anymore?" This was the most colour Clary had ever seen on his cheeks when he wasn't drinking alcohol.

She looked to the floor.

His fingers curled against the wood of the desk, and he exhaled slowly. "I've told you many things: you wanted to know what was wrong with him, you wanted to know _why_ I removed him from General. I told you all that. Now I'm saying that I want the rune," Jonathon said in a gentler tone. He took out a pen from his desk draw and a scrap of paper and placed at the front of his desk; he sank back into his chair.

She moved towards the desk hesitantly.

"I know you don't want to do it under such seemingly suspicious circumstances," he consoled as she reached the desk and slid into the chair opposite him, carefully picking up the pencil and sliding the paper towards herself. "You're my sister, and I love you, but this is for your brother. You'll thank me for it, I promise."

"I suppose this must be the first step to our friendship," she said, sketching swirls and thick lines. She drew a loop, and connected it back to the rest. _A block_ , she chanted to herself. _A block, a block._ Not a memory block, but not one to keep him sedated. A trauma block? A psychological healing rune – that's what it was.

"It's the first step in a lot of things, darling," he said calmly. "Now, he can get our new battle plan completely ready to show you. I can worry less now when he's off doing something dangerous, I don't have to worry about you two so much – _hopefully_ this may resolve it slightly."

She scoffed. "Maybe you should've punished him properly and made it clear that he _can't touch me_."

"That wouldn't have been good for his PTSD," he reminded her.

"So do it now," she said, finishing the sketch with a flourish. "Make him understand."

He laughed quietly, pulling the paper towards him. "You're not completely untouchable," he said. "Not yet. Once you get to the next level, I'd say you'd be untouchable. But you've got a long while to go before you get there."

He looked at her drawing critically, his eyes sweeping over each stroke of the pencil and tapping the edge of his knife against his chin. He looked at it so intently it was as if he was committing it to memory – which, Clary didn't understand, if he was, when he could just copy it.

"And how will I know when I'm there?" She asked curiously.

The corner of his lip twitched into a smirk. "Oh you'll know," he said secretively. "You'll be given more responsibility; you'll get to play with us big boys."

"Will I get to know the name of this dead Shadowhunter girl?"

"Hm. I thought you had forgotten about that already," he said, folding the drawing and tucking it away in a draw. He flexed his grip on the knife.

"Well, who was she?

"I don't think you're stupid, Angel," he said. "I'm _sure_ you know who it is."

"I don't," she forced out through gritted teeth. She couldn't live on pure speculation; she needed confirmation on this one thing if she had nothing else. "Tell me. You promised"

He laughed devilishly. "Well, I am a man of my words, if nothing else." He leaned forward on his desk, twirling the knife. "She was someone Jonathan once knew, so I assume that she's one of these ' _friends'_ that you were asking me about not so long ago. There, look how many birds you killed."

There was only one friend that was a woman, feisty enough to take on Jonathan when this war wasn't as hopeless as it was now. Only one woman that could've held her own long enough to have a final showdown with Jonathan. "Isabelle," Clary whispered. " _By the Angel_."

"Ah, yes," he lied. "I remember her name now. Isabelle Sophia Lightwood."

She couldn't even begin to believe or understand why she had joined his battalion – was it because he had won her over as well or was she just as much a prisoner here as she was? She much preferred the latter, enjoying the thought that she was keeping watch on Jace before he became Jonathan and trying to slow the process of his identity change. Keeping watch on Jace so tightly that she had to murder her own kind on the way just to make sure that she could be there in the end – only for it all to fail. Yet, Clary would never know now what her true purpose here was, only that she was now dead. She wondered about Maryse and Robert, and the location of their last living child, Alec, and whether he was in one of the cells downstairs, so close yet so far away from her when she was enjoying the same fate as him - or whether he had been murdered like his sister and younger brother.

There were so many questions that she had about it.

She whimpered and Jonathon tried to not take notice of her. Eventually, the whimpering and silent crying became too much for him to ignore.

"At least she died fighting," he offered. "She was one of the best warriors and it was…unfortunate that she died, but as least she died fighting like any respectable Shadowhunter."

 _And at least she died at the hands of someone she once knew,"_ Clary thought hopelessly. She knew that it would've been worse if it was Jonathon - or even herself that killed her. _At least she was now with Max and the Angels._

She could hear Jonathan whispering her name even now, shaking and crying on the training room floor. Maybe this was why Jace was never coming back; Jace wasn't just _gone –_ Jace had been destroyed. Worse things could happen to his mind if he came back, knowing all that he had said and done.

"You _tricked_ me," she screeched, furious that she had given aid to Jonathan to rid him of something that he deserved to remember.

He shrugged. "I did," he said unashamedly. "I knew you'd get like this. You don't want to help him now, do you?" She continued to sob. "Like I said, my dear. The game of kings is all about sacrifices."

"I hate you, Jonathon," she spat. "I _despise_ Jonathan. I hate you both. How could you tell me that and expect me to reconcile with Jonathan? How can you expect me to understand what he's done?"

"Ignorance is bliss," he said. He was sat languidly in his chair; he didn't seem to care. "You're the one that was so persistent in knowing. Perhaps next time you might consider that I don't tell you some things because I know that you're better off _not_ knowing."

"I can't believe you blamed me – _me –_ for this happening. _That_ was not my fault, but I'm glad he's suffering from it."

"Oh?" He said gleefully. There was silence for a minute or two as his attention suddenly turned to scraping out dirt from under his nails with the tip of the knife. "You know," he continued, still pleased with himself, "you'll have to forgive me if this proves wrong - I forget the details – but I think at the point of the melee, they might have both been fighting between themselves about who was going to be here to receive you. And then that fight made it into the pit. So, if you think about it, it's your fault she's dead – and that Jonathan has PTSD, of course."

He looked so smug with his answer.

Clary's stomach dropped, and she felt a little bit sick. She didn't want to hear his bullshit; she didn't want to hear anything more about Isabelle from the mouth of either of them. "Are you absolving yourself of blame?" She asked incredulously. "He's _your_ monster."

"He's _your_ brother, too," he said. She could see that he was having too much fun spewing these wretched opinions. "He was _your_ Jace first. Overall, I really had nothing to do with it. I didn't cause their disagreement – I didn't force either of them to fight. You _could_ even go so far as to say that it was both of their faults."

Clary looked away; that sounded like when Jonathan was blaming Max for his own death - on top of the Clave. She stood up from her chair abruptly, tears still streaming down her face and blurring her vision, and rushed to the door, ready to leave his company so quickly.

Had her body even been burned? Had they mourned? Did they speak the threnody to her?

"Maybe it was my fault," he quickly, not too seriously, as he watched her escape. Jonathon could never think that it was entirely his fault. "His mind was still too… _weak_ to cope."

The last thing that Clary heard before the door shut behind her was Jonathon laughing and shouting to her that she better not wreak havoc on her brother or seek him out. He made sure to remind her the consequences of her breaking this trust.


	15. Scapegoat

_"No work or love will flourish out of guilt, fear, or hollowness of heart, just as no valid plans for the future can be made by those who have no capacity for living now"_

* * *

 

Clarissa had locked herself inside her room, and hadn't stepped outside it once since she learnt of Isabelle Lightwood's death.

Jonathon allowed it for a time, letting her have her time of mourning in the hopes that his tolerance of her slack would be noted and welcomed by her; however, as it came up to the second week, and she had still not left her room, he began to become irritable and short-tempered. He ordered for her food to stop being taken to her room, planning to starve her out, knowing that she would've realised that the only way she'd be able to sustain herself – whether it was because she didn't want to die or so that she'd have her strength for when she finally wanted to put a blade through his and Jonathan's heart – would be to leave and go to the kitchens.

Still, after two days, she did not.

He quickly ordered for the return of her daily meals, wanting them to be piled high with necessary nutrients and water to bring her back to whatever brink of death she was on. He didn't know whether she even touched any of it.

Worried about the state of her health, and knowing that if she was clever, she could've easily crafted a noose from her bedsheets, he sent a Shadowhunter from his court up to her door with a stele, and had him peer through. The Shadowhunter returned with news of her paleness, the unnervingly still state that she was lying in on her bed, and the weakness that she seemed to radiate – but she, thankfully, had not used whatever she could find in her room to kill herself. For the next week or so, Jonathon continued to send that Shadowhunter up to her room on a frequent basis to check on her, but she never seemed to change clothes or move from her foetal position on her bed.

He was concerned – and, even more worried. She was showing symptoms of a mental illness even before being converted to his cause, before he had really achieved anything. And knowing what Jonathan was now like, he couldn't see any way of solving her problem, and so saving his plans. He didn't need Clarissa's mind state to be as fragile as it apparently was, didn't need to tiptoe around her as well, in case he said or did something to trigger her depression again.

Depression was such a flimsy thing; there was no sure-fire way - which Jonathon knew of - to make it impossible to return to the sufferer.

And the way that he planned to go about things to bring her to his side – well, it was useful for her to have such a weak mind going into it, but he didn't want her to be depressed enough that she may commit suicide (such was the current fear), retreat entirely into her mind, or refuse to grasp on to any release that he might provide, to combat her scattered feelings, absolve herself from blame and improve her life.

Jonathon tapped his fingers on his desk, pondering his options. War and torture were such precise things.

The frown lines on his forehead deepened further as he thought about the rune that Clary had drawn for him before she had learnt about the death of her friend. He took it out of his desk draw, where it had been stored ever since, and laid it on his desk in front of him. He read the rune; read the lines and swirls and the carefully planned strokes that she had created. Jonathon had wanted it for Jonathan, yes, but this was a rune for psychological healing – of course he had known! Though he wasn't specific with what he had wanted, it wasn't this rune that he had been given, and so he didn't plan to use it.

_A psychological healing rune?_ By the Angel, if Jonathon had used _that_ on Jonathan – he couldn't even begin to bear the idea of what that would've done. All his work to create the perfect brother – dashed. That rune would've fixed absolutely everything that Clarissa found wrong with him, and returned what Jonathon believed to be wrong.

It would've returned Jace Herondale. For all he was at the beginning of his kidnapping, and nothing like he was now.

Despite the fact that, yes, it would've rid him of his PTSD and Jonathon would've had another chance to create the perfect war machine in order to win, it meant that he would've had to re-train him in obedience and how to be a good brother – which Clarissa, even after almost an entire year at the manor, was still struggling to do – _and_ it'd mean that he'd have no sexual release until the two of them had finally reached that level.

Yet, he could use her own rune against her. There was no other psychological trauma that she was suffering through – he hadn't started properly on her yet, so there was nothing that could be wiped away from her silly little rune. She'd be the same as she was, sans the resurfacing hatred for him and increased hatred for Jonathan – she'd trust him as much and hate him as little as she did, and understand their familial bond, but there was nothing to be done for Jonathan now. The only thing that he would gain out of it was the lack of knowledge that it was him who was so corrupted that he murdered his adoptive sister.

He just needed some way to draw it on her without starting a provoked attack that she would remember. He didn't doubt that whilst she may still be lying on her bed, in a comatose manner, she could still put up a good fight if she ever came face to face with him, Jonathan – or anyone else that was trying to draw a rune on her. Jonathon didn't know whether she slept at all – or if she slept all the time and was never awake; her back was facing the door, so he couldn't sneak in to do it at any time.

* * *

Jonathan slept fitfully, but wasn't able to wake.

He felt as if he was drowning, unable to reach the surface to breath, to escape this nightmare and return to reality. He was dying, alone, as everyone did eventually. Though, Jonathan was deluded enough to believe that it would've been different for him – when he died, he would be with his brother, his saviour and keeper. He wouldn't have been alone at all.

But here he was. Drowning. Alone.

He didn't know what had happened, didn't know how he had gotten here. One moment Isabelle - poor, dead Isabelle, who also died alone - was coming after him with a staff, ready to kill him this time for his betrayal – and then she did. And then he was bleeding; a continuous stream of blood from his stomach that he couldn't staunch. She was laughing, watching him bleed out, and he supposed Jonathon was there too, trying to call him back from whatever brink of life he was on – but he was dying, and they all knew that.

Jonathan thought that he might have started to cry. He didn't want to die like this, didn't want to leave Jonathon alone and susceptible to whatever Clarissa may do to him.

He knew that Hell existed – he had seen it with his own eyes from the time he spent with Jonathon – but he didn't know about Heaven anymore. He didn't know whether the Angels were still there, or whether they were as monstrous as Jonathon depicted them – whether they would weep when he reached their Gates or whether they'd cast him away, to Edom or any other residence in Hell. Despite all the death that he had caused, Jonathan was scared of what awaited him.

He was afraid of damnation, but knew in the forgotten depths of his soul that he deserved it.

He wanted comfort in his last moments, wanted his brother – even his sister. He wanted his family, but they were dead or gone – and in any case, he was dead to them. He was never Jonathan _Lightwood_ ; only Jonathan Herondale or Morgenstern.

Everyone died alone, in the end, when it was their time. It was his time now.

* * *

Clary had run out of tears days ago. Now, she had no energy left within her – no energy to fight, none to escape, and none to continue mourning.

She just _was_.

Her silken sheets didn't provide any comfort, and felt the same as everything else did; felt the same as her skin, her clothes, her hair – even her teeth and nails and eyes. For all that it did provide, Clary wasn't any better off sleeping on her bed than she was the floor - except for the fact that the floor was laden with trays and dishes that her brother had sent up to her room for her to eat.

She had eaten scraps of things, but they turned to ash in her mouth, so she had allowed all the food to pile on the floor and rot. Her room must've been beginning to reek of the rot by now, but she didn't notice and she didn't care.

Isabelle wouldn't be able to do any of those things anymore – smell, eat or feel – but she was able to sleep, and so that was what Clary spent most of her time doing.

It didn't help Clary at all, of course. She still felt tired (though she knew that was most likely from not eating), the food was still there, she was still where she was – and Isabelle was still dead. That was all there was to it. There was no escape from the reality of the harsh life she had been forced to be in, in the end.

She was going to be stuck in her room, lying on her bed, surrounded by rotten and rotting food until she died.

Clary wondered whether Jonathan was cured yet. It, of course, meant nothing to her anymore; if it was her fault that Jace had been captured, then it was her fault that he murdered Izzy and developed PTSD and became the monster that he was now. If that was true – and Clary had come to believe that it was – then it was only fair that she released him from this cruelty that she had forced him to endure. _She_ was the one to set everything into motion – if it wasn't for her, Jace may never have been kidnapped; he may never had given up her or Isabelle's location, and he would never have murdered her.

She pressed her face into the pillow and willed tears to fall from her eyes – but nothing happened. She was empty.

She should go and apologise.

* * *

Jonathon had moved on to drawing some new runes on a scrap piece of paper.

He couldn't believe he had never created these before, for they would allow him to be able to manipulate every person perfectly. It'd improve his war spectacularly.

These seven runes weren't extraordinary in general, he admitted – but there were two or three that were his new favourites, and he couldn't wait to try them out. He would give one to every Shadowhunter and every demon soldier that went to battle; he'd give another to Jonathan and Clarissa when they were ready again – and maybe he'd even try another when they sometimes became too much to handle.

The psychological healing rune was still sitting nearby, partially covered by other papers on his desk. He glanced over at it sometimes, in between admiring his new creations, just to make sure it was still sitting where he had left it, and contemplated when he should use it on Clarissa. He had had her room cleaned in preparation of him entering it, so that if he was sneaking in, he wouldn't trip over the numerous plates and cutlery that littered her floor; he almost couldn't believe that there had been so many, and that she had voluntarily stayed in the room, lying on her bed, so close to the rot, without causing more of a mess with vomit. She couldn't have even opened a window to let fresh air in – he had had her windows locked, in anticipation of escape attempts. It must have been horribly stale.

Perhaps that was an indication as good as any that there was something wrong with her.

* * *

Jonathan had stopped drowning. He didn't know when he had, only that he had, and that he was now floating; lucid enough to remember the first time that he had thought he was going to die in this manor, but still unconscious enough that he wasn't able control the flow of thoughts.

_Jonathon had been relentless at the beginning. There had been no time for Jace to become used to his new surroundings (not that he could see anything in the pitch black cell that he was being held in anyway), or devise a strategy of any kind to escape his confinement. One day Jace had fallen asleep, hidden, in Brocelind Forest, and sometime later – be it, minutes, hours or days – he had awoken in chains to see Jonathon Morgenstern playfully watching him._

_Then it began._

_A barrage of questions was flung at him every new day:_

_"_ _Who are you?" Jace Herondale._

_"_ _Who are your parents?" Stephen and Celine Herondale._

_"_ _Are you good?" Yes. I'd like to think so – better than good, even._

_"_ _Who am I?" Sebastian Morgenstern._

_"_ _Who is my sister?" You don't have a sister. There are no other Morgensterns left._

_"_ _Am I good?" By the Angel, no._

_"_ _Are you a rebel?" Yes._

_"_ _Why?" I'm defending freedom._

_"_ _So do you want to hurt me? Kill me?" If you're offering, I'd gladly accept._

_For every wrong answer he gave, he was punched or slapped around the face; sometimes Jonathon even went so far as to kick him in the stomach and chest with his heavy-duty boots. That had broken a few ribs - and would've contributed to a punctured lung, had Jace not began to answer some of the questions correctly._

_After every interrogation, his wounds were left to fester and weep and bleed, whilst he hoped that he had answered enough questions correctly to be able to be allowed a few hours rest and to be allowed to relieve himself whenever he required throughout the rest of the day. If he was especially lucky – if he had been especially intelligent during the latest quiz – then Jonathon would allow him to have a few extra scraps of food and water, which would've helped Jace have more energy for whenever he next came back. He didn't want to be subject to more beatings because he was beginning to fall asleep in the middle of an interrogation or because he didn't seem to be paying enough attention to Jonathon._

_The day Jace had first thought he was going to die in the manor was after a particularly stressful interrogation._

_Jonathon had seemed on-edge about something from the moment he had entered his prison, and was the most ruthless with him that he had ever been, punishing him for every second he hesitated – no longer it being contained to kicks and punches, but now being dragged around and thrown in some of his bodily fluids and faeces that were scattered around his cell. Which caused him to vomit; and then he was pushed in that too. Jonathon had gained so much perverse joy from that beating, that he forgot to ask Jace any questions and continued on as if the questions had finished; and then he left suddenly, and when he came back the next day, they resumed the vicious punishment – this time, with Jonathon's whip._

_That continued for the next lifetime, creating scars that still hurt with phantom pains. Sometimes the questions returned, sometimes they didn't._

_He was beaten half to death for the first time since he had arrived._

Jonathan woke up and vomited.

* * *

Clary had stumbled out from her room and into the corridor, trying to blink away colourful spots that blinded her and use the banister to keep herself upright, as weak as she was. She kept trying to remember in what direction she had to go in to reach Jonathon's office, but it kept slipping from her mind and she repeatedly blacked out for a few moments.

She was sick; she knew that much. There was a pile of fresh vomit in her room that was a testament to it.

Still, she kept stumbling and searching for her way to her brother's office to apologise for what she had done to their brother. Maybe she'd even find Jonathan with him, and she could apologise to him too, and restart their problematic relationship; Clary couldn't believe that she had destroyed everyone's lives and then blamed it on _him_ , when it wasn't really all of his fault.

Her hand slipped from the banister and she fell forward, hurriedly grasping back onto the banister to right herself and desperately trying not to vomit onto her own two feet. By the Angel she was _tired._

* * *

Jonathan knew that he was groggy, and perhaps still slightly disorientated from his awful nightmares, but he knew that he wasn't imagining it when Clarissa bumped into him and then heartily apologised for it.

And that wasn't _all_ she apologised for.

"I'm so sorry that I did this to you, Jonathan," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault. This is my fault. You have PTSD because of _me_." She was clinging onto his shirt sleeves like a child, and Jonathan was rightfully confused, but interested and willing to accept whatever she was saying at face-value. If this was going to be how she was with him now, he didn't mind much – as long as she wasn't trying to kill him. " _I_ made you kill Isabelle."

Jonathan choked, spluttering and looking wildly around him. How did she know about _that?_ Why wasn't she mad? _Was…Was_ this _why she locked herself in her room?_

And by the Angel did she _reek._ Reeked of vomit and death and decay, covered in dirt and grime that rubbed off on his own fingers and clothes, with dried and flaking vomit stains on her own clothes. She hadn't showered or bathed in over a week – that much was clear.

"Oh, it was _her_?" Isabelle said, appearing behind Clarissa as he gingerly patted her on the head as she wrapped her arms around her waist. Her hair was greasy, thin and unwashed; he regretted touching it. "That's funny; I could've sworn that you were in control of your own body at that moment."

His eyes continued to dart around, looking over the banister, to Jonathon's office door behind him and the others around it, down the hall and then back at the top of her ginger head. Jonathon was nowhere to be seen; no one was anywhere to be seen – other than the bloody apparition of Isabelle, who was unwanted and useless to him.

_She_ couldn't rescue him from this problem that he had found himself in. His eyes began to water from the stench; he felt sicker than he was.

He cleared his throat. "Well, we weren't both going to make it. She had to go; they needed a leader they liked," he said thickly. He could feel her tears and snot soaking through his garments; he cringed. "What are you doing out from your room?"

If she hadn't left when denied food, then what had made her leave now? Surely it couldn't have been for the sole purpose of finding him – they still hated each other when he had gone to sleep, and he knew that it was the same day (well, it was _night)_ since then. What could've have happened since he had been asleep? He was convinced that Jonathon didn't know about this new development – didn't know that she was up and walking and no longer using her room as a hideout, and _certainly_ didn't know about this new change of heart. Jonathon would've called him and told him about it if he had. Now Jonathan was the one that needed to pass on the new information.

Isabelle scoffed. "You couldn't even tell that it was all an act! They were _scared_ of you! You had no idea what they were saying about you in the barracks," she said.

"I'm _so_ sorry," Clary continued to sob. "If only I had showed up earlier. I could've saved you. I could've saved you both."

This was how Jonathan imagined having a little sister would be like – tears and hugging and her desperately clinging onto him however she could – except, without the idea that she could've saved him and the hope that she took herself and her stink far away from him. He knew that she couldn't have saved him – couldn't have saved him or Isabelle, not even herself. She would've been just as bad as he was now if she had arrived at the manor earlier, or worse. There was no way that she could've stopped it.

And Jonathan knew that there was little time left until Jonathon _really_ knuckled down her. But at least she had gotten this far in her self-delusion; he knew that it'd be easier from here on out, and that it wouldn't be so cutthroat if she gave in as easily as she had. It'd be as easy as falling asleep.

Still, Jonathan wouldn't revert back to whatever he was before. He couldn't. Cruelty wasn't a personality trait; cruelty was a habit.

One that he had become accustomed to.

He could feel Isabelle's anger pulsing around him as if it was his own, as she snarled at Clarissa lunged for her, hands wrapping around her throat. Yet, Clarissa was fine – because Isabelle wasn't real and couldn't affect anything in the real world. "It's not your fault, you useless _bitch_!" Isabelle seethed, shaking her by the neck with each new declaration. "You're losing yourself! You're falling, you _fool._ Find Jace, find him, find him, find him."

Jonathan gritted his teeth as he listened to her. She was wrong.

"Jonathon saved me," he told her. She only nodded frantically, her head still pressed to his stomach. She clung to him so hard that he was worried about what their brother might think when he saw them; they were outside of his office after all. He tried to detach her, a crippling fear beginning to consume him, but she wouldn't budge, and just continued crying. He didn't understand why she was so emotional.

Jonathan heard a door click and his breath hitched.

"Speak of the devil," Isabelle muttered, stepping back away from Clarissa and fiddling with her electrum whip from around her wrist.

Jonathan threw a panicked glance over his shoulder at his brother who was leaning against the doorway, a smirk playing on his face. His playful look was so similar to the one that he had relived in his nightmare that he had to suppress a shiver. "Do you need me to save you again, brother?" He asked, trying his best to stop himself from laughing.

Jonathan would've thought that he would be more surprised to see Clarissa outside of her room than he was, thought that he would've been astounded to witness this reconciliation of sorts.

"I am quite a saviour figure," he admitted. "Just ask anyone around here." Jonathan still looked as uncomfortable as anything; Jonathon then looked to his sister, partially hidden behind Jonathan's thick build. "And _sister_ \- long time, no see!" He sauntered over to her, and carefully plucked her from Jonathan, pushing her far enough away from him so that he could get a good look at her, and see how well she was able to stand on her own.

She wobbled slightly, but that might just have been from his rough handling; overall, her eyes were wet and glassy, but clear enough not to be a worry to him, and she was thin and without much muscle, like she was when she first showed up at the manor, but other than that, she was fine. Yet, she smelt so awful that he was surprised that he couldn't see any sight of infection upon her body; though, she wouldn't be infection free for much longer, he feared, if she didn't sort out her current lack of hygiene and wash the sick-stained frock.

She was of course also missing muscle, but that wasn't much of a problem. She could grow muscle back as easily and quickly as she wanted – and he would make sure that she wanted to.

"What's with all this crying, my lovely?" Jonathon leaned down to swipe a tear away with a large thumb. This might've been the only source of water to have touched her face since he last saw her; he moved to wipe his thumb on his gear.

Clary grasped his hand, clinging onto it like she clung onto Jonathan; his eyes widened. She wasn't strong in the least, but it was surprising that she had done such a gesture. "I'm sorry," she pleaded. "I'm sorry, Jonathon. I should've kept to my promises; I should've empathised and drawn the rune like you wanted."

Jonathon blinked, stunned. _If this was all that it took to break this part of her…_ He looked to Jonathan, who was still looking at him in a bewildered manner, as if he had any idea about what had happened.

"She was like this when she ran into me," Jonathan whispered. "I don't know what happened. No one has been in or out of her room all day."

"She's so scared – look at what you've done to her," Isabelle said disgustedly. "Another statistic to the success rate of your enlightenment."

Jonathon nodded slowly, taking the information in. He pulled her into an embrace by her shoulder, so that he and Jonathan could continue to speak without her noticing; he smoothed down her hair and said, "Well crying is going to change naught, now isn't it?"

Her hair was disgusting, but Jonathon had started with the soothing caresses and so had to continue.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated. "You've used it, haven't you, brother? Please use it. Use it, use it - use the rune. _I'm sorry._ I don't want anyone to suffer." She looked up from his stomach, staring into his fathomless eyes. "You know I never wanted anyone to suffer. You always knew that." Clarissa planted her face back into his stomach.

"Rune?" Jonathan whispered curiously. "She's drawn a new rune? Jonathon, what is she talking about?"

In the pit of his stomach, Jonathan was excited that she may even be crazier than he was. He wasn't the disappointment after all.

Jonathon shrugged carelessly. "She's confused and – sad. You can see that, can't you? This is why you have to keep on top of your emotions; you'll become confused if you don't." He spoke louder to Clarissa: "My dear, didn't I say to stop crying? You are forgiven – what left is there to cry about now? Your brother is fine."

She moved her head from Jonathon's stomach again, and looked to Jonathan with large, wet, pleading eyes. He could barely stand to look at her. "And you – do you forgive me too, Jonathan? I am so sorry," she said. "I don't _really_ hate you."

Jonathan didn't really forgive her - he didn't think that he ever could – but Jonathon was watching him imploringly, and he vaguely remembered a past life, when him and Clary were so close and were easily able to forgive each other, and he knew that this was a bridge that needed to be built to achieve some of their later goals. "Of course I do," he choked out, flashing an uneasy smile.

Her ecstatic grin might've been reward enough in that other life.

"There, you see? All better," Jonathon said, turning her around again to face him. "Now, we can put all of this behind us, can't we? Move on from this little problem. People die all the time, and sometimes it's your fault, and sometimes it's nobody's – that's just life. And we're in the middle of a war, so even more innocents are dying, and as unfortunate as that is, all we can do is move on." He looked happily around at the both of them. "Alright? There's no point crying about it, that won't change anything."

Clary, still slightly miserable, nodded her head; Jonathan nodded his head far more enthusiastically.

Jonathon looked at them both – his angelic siblings, both broken in their own way. He knew and understood his brother's condition, and his brother was so obvious about it whenever it happened – but with how quickly Clarissa had gotten over her assumed depression, it seemed that his sister was more complicated than he had previously thought. Was she depressed or merely in mourning over her friend? Her actions would suggest that she was depressed, especially since going so far as to starve herself – but the way she lit up after being forgiven… Jonathon was confused and suspicious. She could be lying, or depressed – or merely sad. He reconsidered the idea of using her rune against her, seeing her as fine as she was; he didn't know if there was any risks of using that rune on her when she was void of physical trauma.

"Wonderful," Jonathon said, lacing his fingers with Clarissa's and pulling her in again to kiss her cheek. His arm once again moved to curl around her body. "Well, what an interesting reunion this was, but I suppose that it's best that we rest for tomorrow. You," he looked down at his sister, "are restarting training tomorrow with me, and we'll build back all of this muscle that you seem to have lost. And we'll have breakfast altogether now we're a proper family, and in a few days' time we can refocus on the war." He looked to his brother, and inquired whether the surprise would be ready by then; Jonathan gave him an affirmative. "I can't wait to go back and show you the surprise, Sister." His arm slipped from being around her. "So, it's time to return to your individual quarters. Long day ahead."

His sister gripped onto his hand tighter, and Jonathan stepped forward. Jonathon straightened.

"Brother, I actually wanted to speak to you about something," Jonathan said, quickly glancing at Clarissa and then back at his brother. Jonathon followed his eye movements and understood what it'd be about.

He moved away from his sister and ordered her to go back to bed, even though that was where she had spent the better part of 2 weeks; he understood that she might be a little reluctant to spend any more time there, but he didn't expect her to tug him back. She seemed frightened, and against the better part of him, he felt compassion.

This was what it meant to have a little sister.

"Please," she said. "I've been alone for too long. I can't go back."

Clay certainly couldn't go back to her empty room where the thoughts kept her awake, blaming each of them in turn – but mostly blaming her. She couldn't go back to the pile of vomit on the floor, not knowing whether the demons had cleaned it yet or not, but feeling oddly disjointed that she could see it and touch it, but not smell it or have any sort of emotion towards it being there.

She wanted to feel again, and the biggest thing that she'd ever felt in this manor was fear and anger and hatred when with Jonathon – and if she didn't now, well. Her emotions were gone forever.

Jonathon wondered, for the first time, whether being alone, without absolutely _any_ form of contact, was what really broke Clarissa - and not his suggestions about whose fault it really was. Of course, it was those hints that had festered in the silence, but it may never have happened – or happened as rapidly – if she hadn't been left alone to think about them. To make sure that she didn't slip back into it, and start to contradict this whole episode, he needed to provide company and watch her, which he could use to monitor her possible depression. Maybe even reward her for her sincere apologies.

She was lost, and he needed to provide guidance, as the self-proclaimed saviour.

"Fine," Jonathon sighed. "Jonathan, go into my office and wait there for me to return. I'm just going to escort Clarissa to my room for the night."

Jonathan didn't look impressed, but he nodded. He was sure with the number of knives and otherwise cursed knives hidden in his room, Clarissa was sure to find at least one. Though he took comfort in her being weak enough to not be able to use whatever she found effectively, he'd rather she didn't find anything at all.

* * *

She didn't release his hand the entire walk to his room, and Jonathon, though still suspicious and wary of her and her intentions, had an inner joy.

He gently pushed her over the threshold by his hand on the small of her back, and the steered her into his bathroom. "I don't know why every time you're with me, you're horribly dirty and or rotting," he said to her as he turned on the shower and checked that it was an okay temperature, "but I'll be back by the time you've finished getting washed. Alright?" He withdrew his hand from the running water for the shower and turned to her; she was still standing quietly by the door, swaying like a blade of grass in the wind. Jonathon frowned. "I'll come back with refreshments too; it'll be like our little party the other week," he said more softly.

"Okay," she said. "Alright."

Jonathon had a strange sense that she wasn't 'okay' with it, or 'alright' about him leaving, but he just wiped his hand on a towel and kissed her again on the cheek. As he moved passed her, he hesitated on the threshold. "I'll send someone from your Battalion up to keep you company until I return," he told her, then left.

* * *

When Jonathon returned later, sated from Jonathan's care and rewarding his brother for being so forgiving, and excited to visit his beasts once again now that Jonathan had trained them to a perfect standard, he saw the Shadowhunter that he had sent up, Julian, awkwardly sitting on the edge of his bed and Clarissa nowhere in sight. He could hear the shower was still running; he assumed that she was still in there, no mattered how long her shower must've been.

As soon as he had crossed the threshold into the room, Julian stood to attention, his face darkening as he took in the king's concerned expression, and quietly declared, "Your Majesty". A knife dangled from his fingertips – his own, and not one of Jonathon's many hidden ones - but his seraph blade was still slung across his back; still, Jonathon cocked his head and prowled closer to him, worried that he had hurt his sister and his general for whatever reason.

The hand holding the knife twitched, and Julian's eyes quickly flicked to the entryway of the bathroom and then back to Jonathon's twice.

Jonathon stopped. He took out his own dagger.

"She hasn't moved since I arrived, Sire," he informed the king. He looked like he doubted the sanity of his general as he swallowed and said, "She's just been standing there, swaying. Her Royal Highness didn't even notice that I entered, Your Majesty – the Princess hasn't said a word." He quickly looked to the floor, knowing that the king might be able to see the curiosity in his eyes. It wasn't his place to ask questions.

The king stiffened. "And-?" He gestured to Julian's dagger with his own.

Julian hesitated. "Cleaning the dirt from my nails, Sire."

Jonathon stepped aside from the doorway, and quickly dismissed the Shadowhunter.

"If it pleases Your Majesty," he muttered as he rushed to exit the room, not wanting to overstay his welcome with a slow exit. He closed the door behind him.

Jonathon pocketed his dagger and moved into his bathroom again, blinking as he found her as he left her. As he settled his hand onto her shoulder, he felt her jump in surprise.

"Jonathon," she gasped.

He moved around to look at her head-on, then crouched on the floor so that he was at eye level. "Clarissa," he said. His hand moved to cup her face, in the hopes that it would lessen her swaying. "My darling, I thought you were going to get washed."

She didn't seem to have a reply.

"You have to get washed if you want to stay with me, Clarissa," he told her. After her continued silence, he patiently asked her what it was that she wanted.

"A stele," she choked out.

"A stele?" He repeated, his voice betraying concern and suspicion. He ran his hands up and down her arms. "My dear, why do you want a stele?"

"A time machine."

Jonathon's eyebrows furrowed; he had never heard of such a thing in his life. "What's that?"

Clarissa seemed to struggle for words. "To go back in time and – save Isabelle, save Jonathan."

"Oh, I see," he said bitterly. She wanted to save them, but what of him? What of their entire family? Did his demonic nature not seem like a confliction that he wished to escape? With _him_ saved, they could _all_ be saved. He and Clarissa could've been a real family, and he could've had a real mother and perhaps learnt more than just the art of war. They could've had another sibling, and Jace may never have bothered them.

Clarissa might not have even been called Clarissa.

"But do you know how far back to go? Where would you be after you go back in time? Here – or wherever you were in Idris at the time?" He pulled her closer, gathering her in his arms. If he wasn't going to be saved, then no one was. "Clarissa, you wouldn't know where to begin to save them."

This seemed to make her sad – well, sadder than she already was – and Jonathon breathed a frustrated sigh.

"Look, how about you go get washed, and afterwards, for being such a good girl today, we'll talk about your time machine a bit more." Jonathon hoped that he forgot about this promise by the time she finished her shower. "Okay? I won't leave this time, I'll just wait."

She nodded distractedly.

* * *

When she exited the bathroom, still wet and wrapped in a white towel, she was glowing, but her eyes were still dead. She hovered in the doorway; Jonathon slipped off his bed to award her with a nightgown he had taken from her room and led her further in to his space.

"There," he told her, "you look so much better now. I'll serve your food whilst you get dressed."

He took her to the corner opposite to where the food laid, so that he was able to keep his back to her and offer the privacy that he was so far obliged to give. When she was done dressing, she crept back over to where he was and he ushered her onto his bed, then handed her a plate of hot food. He poured them both drinks, one of water and another of red wine, and then laid on the other side of the bed, next to her; he watched and made sure that she ate as he sipped from his glass.

However, she didn't eat a lot, and ate it slowly; he couldn't exactly force feed her, but he was loathed to allow her to continue to barely sustain herself. Yet, it was probably right of her to not eat as much as he had expected her to – she would've probably been sick all over his floor.

He brushed some of her hair out of her face and reflected back on what it was like when it was just him and Jonathan, at the beginning of everything, and the new things that he had learnt from it. He knew that what he needed to do was to get her back to doing what she enjoyed, like fighting or horse-riding, but he wasn't entirely sure if that would work this time.

"I was sad once," he told her. It was a half-truth, but it wasn't like she could tell if he was lying or not. She barely even looked in his direction "I was told that I was a monster and the reason why my mother was never coming back. I remembered her, _of course_ I remembered her. And it was my fault that she had left, and why my father was upset and angry. 'A monster can never be loved,' he told me. I didn't really understand what made me a monster at that point, but I soon learnt what it meant to be one. When he said that a monster can never be loved, he even meant that their own family can't love them. I saw my father with his other son, his adoptive son, Jonathan Herondale, and knew that he loved him more than me. I saw my mother with _you,_ the sister that had been taken away from me, to protect her from me, and knew that I could never be loved as much as an Angel such as yourself. I saw you and knew that I'd never get another chance to be loved by family."

"You weren't sad," she quietly told him. "You don't know what it's like to be sad. You were outraged and destructive. You still are, even when you've got your family with you; and if you knew what love was, you'd know that Valentine never loved either of you."

Jonathon was taken back. He took her plate away from her and set it on his nightstand, watching her carefully. "Well, wrath is a deadly sin," he muttered. "Fitting."

She returned to her eerie silence. They sat there, two unhappy bed-sharing participants.

Jonathon threw his head back onto his pillow and slid further down into the bed, relaxing, but not sleeping. Never sleeping freely. He looked over to his sister, and told her to go to sleep instead.

She shook her head and began frowning.

He understood that it must have been a fear of nightmares; this house seemed to always have a nightmare being dreamt at all hours of the day. He reached over and clasped her hand, soothingly rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. "Aren't you tired?" He asked softly, dropping his voice in a way that could make anyone do whatever he wanted, make anyone believe what he said. She fought a yawn. "You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept, princess?"

"I can't remember," she whispered.

"You can't remember," he echoed. "Why not sleep now then, my princess? I'll watch over you, I'll keep away the nightmares and bad thoughts." He pulled her further under the warm covers.

"No. I have to-," she started, but did not finish as a yawn consumed her – and, in any case, she had forgotten what it was that she had to do that prevented her from sleeping. "The time machine."

"Ah," Jonathon said quietly, slowly. He didn't know what to say. "You want to see Isabelle." His hand reached over to caress her hair, stroking it in a calming manner that had her relaxing further. "My lovely, there is no better way to see the dead than through memories in your dreams. In your dreams you can remember her for what she was, remember her in your own glorified way: untouched, unbroken, and undead. Going back in time my just ruin all that you knew. Let the dead rest and the past remain the past."

He knew that she wasn't listening to his words so much as listening to his velvet tones, and letting him drug her with his voice so that she may escape her reality. By the time that he had finished, she was already fast asleep, still loosely holding onto his hand and Jonathon's hand still in her hair.

Nightmares did not plague her that night, as he had promised, and when she woke, she felt refreshed. A stele laid on Jonathon's nightstand, but she did not touch it, didn't even want it.

A time machine rune was her worst idea to date; it would have never worked.


	16. Destruction

_“Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.”_

* * *

 

"Time to get up, sweet sister!" Jonathon called, barging into her room as the sun only just broke over the horizon.

Except this wasn't really her room, she reminded herself. She hadn't returned to her room for a week or so. This was Jonathon's room.

Clary rolled over and continued to ignore him.

Jonathon was in no mood to laze around today, and so pulled the bed covers off her as he continually called for her to get up. "Today will change the world, O my lovely," he said cheerfully as he picked up a new hunting costume from his demon ward. It glinted red in the sunlight.

When he saw that she still had not moved from her bed, he laid her gear over a chair, and pulled her out.

Jonathon had kept his caring brother routine every day since she had taken up residence in his room, continuing to behave as he had on the first night – making sure she slept properly, slept easily without nightmares or any other horror, and kept vigil as she ate each meal, making sure that she had strength for their training sessions. Training with a rag doll was no fun for either of them.

He, as usual, didn't spend long looking at her body, which was thinly veiled by a nightgown he had given her, as he did every night. This still surprised Clary as she began to regain her emotions, though she was still partially despondent; she was mostly still waiting for him to make an incestuous move on her, but every day that he didn't, she stayed confused and sedated. She thought that he would've taken any opportunity that presented itself to ogle her, especially when she was in less clothes than what he usually saw her in. Clary couldn't be angry at him for not doing it and staying as nice as he could be, so it backfired and caused her to become angry at herself for wishing that he would do something as horrific to her as that.

Similar things were being felt when she thought about Jonathan. She tried not to think about either of them.

Her brother thrust her new gear into her hands, and turned to take her polished tiara, slightly bigger than usual, from another demon escort.

The gear was cold in her hands, but was warming up fast in the sunlight. It had been made from metal, woven in such a way that it appeared to have scales coating the clothing. The metal was coloured obsidian, as customary for a Shadowhunter's hunting gear, but there were hints of red among the plating, which gleamed when in light. She turned it in her hands, knowing that she hadn't been gifted with something ordinary.

This was armour - not hunting gear. They were calling down an enchantment if the sheen was anything to go by.

She looked to the similar armour that her brother was wearing, but it had a different added shade. Yellow. The victory march.

Was she being thrown into war today? She hugged it close to her chest, as if it could provide any comfort.

Not noticing her mild discomfort - or not caring about it - he placed the crown neatly upon her hair, looking at it admiringly.

A demon then discreetly handed Jonathon something, which he accepted with a wild grin. He took her hand and slowly slipped a ring onto it, kissing her knuckles afterwards. Warmth bloomed beneath the ring and travelled up her bones, the first feeling of fervour that she had felt in weeks. It created a spark within herself.

She noted with confusion that she was now wearing their family ring. _Where had he gotten this from?_ She checked his fingers to see that he was still wearing his, and she knew that Jonathan was probably still wearing hers – or was that one his? Which one was the replica and which was the original? Surely hers must be original – Jonathon must want to keep the ring between those who shared the same blood, between the true Morgensterns.

She ran her fingers over the chain of five-sided stars engraved into the silver, finding it as smooth as she remembered and without any faults or flaws that she could see or feel. It too was cold despite the feeling that it invoked within her. This must be hers, the one that she had given Jace before he was taken.

"There," he said happily. "The Perfect Princess: Clarissa Adele Morgenstern. Home at last." His calloused hands enclosed around hers, approving the sight of the ring on her finger. "Princess Clarissa, the Creator of Runes." He smiled brilliantly, and Clary looked away shyly. She was the complete Morgenstern, _the Creator of Runes._ Her everlasting title and purpose. "Now, my sweet, time to get dressed. Meet us in the foyer."

He thumbed her lips, wondering why she wasn't nearly as happy as he was – or even her brother, Jonathan, who he had seen grinning foolishly, on the way up to her room. This was the most exciting morning of her life so far, he was sure of it.

It was the most exciting morning of _his_ life – and he and Clarissa weren't really all that different.

He pulled her lips up into a silly smile, and grinned easily at her as she looked at him in an unamused manner, but her lips were twitching into what he understood was her idea of a smile now. Jonathon let go of her, and kissed her firmly on that smiling, dead mouth, pulling away only moments later when it had been a second too long, and proudly left the room.

"Time to end this bloody war," he declared in parting.

* * *

As Clary descended the stairs, her brothers stopped talking to watch her. Behind them, a portal had been opened; the brothers stood in front of it, as if they were keeping it guarded – guarding her from whatever may come out, or preventing her from going in, she did not know.

Her heart rate sped up as she trotted down the stairs.

Jonathon smiled, playfully nudging his brother with his shoulder, who seemed to have a sour look on his face; whatever Clary had interrupted, he wasn't happy about it. His grimace lifted into a more neutral look, his entire posture relaxing to mimic Jonathon's apparent lack of fear at her presence. She had never seen Jonathan look happier when staring her in the face.

Upon both of their heads were their own customary crowns: Jonathon's ill-fitting crown had been ditched for another that fitted perfectly, one that seemed more practical for calling down enchantment and suited their hunting gear more, one that was without jewels, fur lining and intricate design; Jonathan had been given his bronze crown, similar to hers as usual, except hers was silver. There was never anything special about her and Jonathan's crowns; she would've thought that they were the same as normal, if not for their larger size – she hadn't even _known_ that they or Jonathon had two crowns, and didn't know why he opted to wear the other when this was less ceremonious and more practical for whatever he did most of the time.

Clary and Jonathan's crowns merely consisted of several ropes of metal twisted into a shape that resembled a crown, with eight, evenly spaced, blunted triangles that were arranged around the rim of the headband; across it were the Morgenstern stars, arranged identically to how they were on their rings.

Jonathan was also dressed similarly in their armoured hunting gear. His glinted bronze, matching his crown – the summoning of wicked powers. At his feet laid miles of steel chains, wound up into a small pile, and buckets of what looked like to be raw flesh, which looked to be so fresh that the blood glistened in the light; in his hand, gloved by a gauntlet decorated in demonic runes that made her stomach churn, was his engraved _adamas_ whip.

What _were_ they setting out to do?

"Clarissa," Jonathon greeted happily, taking her arm and leading her down the last few steps, "I'm glad you finally decided to join us."

She looked around herself again, feeling uneasy at what was about to happen; she tried to avoid turning her eyes towards Jonathan and his fly-swarmed bucket of meat chunks. Clary gave him a thin-lipped smile. "What are we doing today? Not training, surely."

Though, Clary could come up with at least five different ways that he might train her, using Jonathan's pile of equipment. Most exercises involved his much loved hounds (that still attacked her very presence whenever they saw her) and his warhorses (of which had a peculiar taste for the kind of meat that was contained in that bucket) – both beasts itching to tear off a chunk of the flesh that had been pinned to her, turning her into bait, whilst her hands or feet were secured by the chains.

She wouldn't put any of it past him.

He smirked. "Not training at all," he said. Jonathon then paused, looking considerate. "Well, you won't be the one being trained this time, but you might be the one _doing_ the training."

Clary shook her head. "I don't understand," she told them. She gestured to each of them, including herself, in turn. "Red for calling down enchantment; saffron for the victory march and – bronze for summoning wicked powers. _The portal._ None of that fits in to," her hands gesticulated wildly, paying particular attention to the bucket and chains, " _this._ What sort of training is going to be going on here? If we're summoning a-"

The boys exchanged feral grins. "We're not conducting a summoning," Jonathan said slyly.

"Like I said, my lovely," Jonathon said, taking her by the elbow and steering her towards the portal, swirling faster and clearing the closer they moved to it, "this is a surprise. You've been wanting to know where Jonathan's been disappearing all this time: well, here it is. Here's what's going to make Idris _ours_ once and for all."

He pushed her through the portal.

* * *

Clary landed on her hands and knees, her armour clinking against the dank, concrete floor. A curtain of hair fell in front of her eyes, and her crown teetered on her head.

Brushing her hair back and resettling the crown, she pushed herself back onto her feet and dusted her hands on her knees, brushing away the slime and dirt that accumulated on the floor. This place was disgusting and – dark.

Her brothers followed her seconds later, both landing firmly on their feet, with the equipment that they had gathered and a flaming torch in hand. The portal blinked out of existence behind them, stopping all three of them from going back home. Both looked amused at her disgruntled look, but quickly brushed past her and strode into a long, dimly lit corridor; they called for her to follow after them.

She did so without complaint.

The corridor was made of the same concrete that she had landed on, but was wet with moisture and had a continuous drip of water echoing down their path; other than smelling of dampness, it also smelled of rot and sewage and Jonathan's bucket of meat didn't make it any better. Dark green moss crawled up the walls and carpeted their feet, but even that didn't disguise the crunching of animal – or what she hoped to be animal – bones under their feet; some animals that were still very much alive even were so brave to scuttle across her boots and fly past their heads. Their shadows grew and twisted and merged together on the walls either side of them, creating monstrous shadows that loomed over and seemed to stalk all three; Clary had never been afraid of the dark, but these representations made her consider that. The cold flowed from the walls and through her armour, chilling her to the bone; she looked to her brothers, but they hardly seemed affected by any of it – hardly seemed affected by _anything,_ anymore.

Jonathan and Jonathon seemed to know this tunnel well enough to be sure-footed and span far ahead of her, almost leaving her in the dark and alone, whilst she tripped over everything that she couldn't see. Clary had never realised how many times they must have travelled to this place without her until now, seeing them know exactly where to walk and turn, when everywhere looked exactly the same –

_And where was this bunker anyway?_

When they reached a crossroads, after a walk that seemed never-ending, her brothers patiently waited for her to hesitantly run the last few paces to catch up with them. From where they were standing, Clary could hear a collection of blood-curdling shrieks and roars reverberating down each of the three pathways that were open to them, blending together to make a demonic cacophony of noise that drowned out any other thought or sound – even the crackling of the fire that was so close to her head.

Her brothers stood strong and fearless and _thrilled_ as she trembled in between them. She, like the child – the little sister - that she was, sought out Jonathon's hand.

"Scared?" Jonathan teased, the light from his flame casting shadows across his usually beautiful face.

Jonathon laced their fingers together, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. Whatever those things were, whatever she was hearing, she had to have faith that she was safe in their hands, that they weren't getting in over their heads. They were always so meticulous and practical – and they had experience with whatever those things were; they had spent great amounts of time with their "surprise".

Jonathon grinned, his teeth looking monstrously sharp. "She should be," he purred. "It's always good to have a little bit of fear. It keeps you alert."

Clary didn't think that her brother had ever felt an ounce of fear in his life. And Jonathan? She didn't know whether he even felt fear anymore. Perhaps it was only her with the human emotions left.

She swallowed. "What are they?" She asked the darkness, her voice oddly breathless.

They shared a look over her head, and Jonathon shrugged. "If we don't tell you now, will you continue with us?" He asked gently.

A sudden, loud shriek pierced the dark, and a flash of bright light shown down the pathway that she faced. It was all so abrupt that she jumped and tears sprang to her eyes. She felt sick. Clary stepped backwards, but two hands on her back stopped her from moving any further; the hand she had held out of comfort was gone and was now preventing her escape.

Not that she knew where to go to leave, anyway.

"Clarissa?" Jonathon probed, pulling her forward to where he and Jonathan was. Pulling her forward to the tunnel that ultimately led to death. His hand withdrew from her and pulled out a stele from his pocket. "I can send you home, if you want; but you'll never come out with us again if you're going to be this scared. I wouldn't have brought you with us today if I thought that you were going to be this… _Childish."_

"You'll want to see these, Clarissa," Jonathan told her. "If you go home now, you'll never know what you're missing out on."

The roars increased in noise, as if they could sense their masters were closing in on them – or maybe they could just smell their lunch. The ground rattled beneath her feet and was accompanied by a thud; it felt like an earthquake, but the boys didn't seem to think so. Their surprise was getting antsy.

They thought that their surprise was so impossible, such a massive feat of impressiveness, that she still had no idea what it could possibly be. But Clary did know – or, at least, she was confident about what she expected to see at the end of any of those tunnels – and she expected that she would sleep easier every night _not_ knowing the truth of what they were. She had heard those noises before, had seen the flash of light and the growing heat in her nightmares; in her dreams; in the TV shows that her Mundane life revolved around – and she was sure as hell (where she expected that they had originated from) that she wasn't going to allow her wildest fantasies to be seduced.

Yet, she wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to be included in every single one of their horrific escapades by denying this one because she was behaving "childish".

Even though she was one. A big one.

This could be it for her. A way to _stop_ them – or delay their victory. She couldn't begin to imagine how much it would mean to the last rebels to learn of this information, to learn where they were situated so that they could murder these monstrosities before they were ever included in the warfare and keep the stakes how they currently were – even if it didn't mean an outright victory for them straight away. She needed to see _all_ their battle plans for when she was able to discover another traitor in their midst.

Jonathan's hand slipped from her back and reached out to take the torch from Jonathon's other hand. "Look, Jonathon," he said brusquely, "just put a Fearless rune on her and carry her down there. She's never going to answer – she's bloody paralysed with fear. The less she has, the better."

"A little bit of fear is good to have," he repeated firmly, his eyes only looking away from her for a few seconds. "We don't want her to be reckless when she sees them."

"She has too much," he protested. "Too much fear is destructive."

Jonathon huffed, conceding that he was right. "Clarissa-"

"I don't _want_ a Fearless rune," she said. Jonathon quietly sighed and pocketed the stele, glancing at Jonathan with a smug look. She took his hand again within her own trembling one, and told them both that she would go.

Jonathan looked doubtful and anxious, probably not wanting her palpable fear to stress out their beasts or for them to smell her weakness and attack her, the weak one, but he continued on ahead as was the plan, leading the way. Every footfall, despite being muffled by the moss, seemed louder and more attention-seeking than they had at the other end of the tunnels, and the walls seemed to sweat more as the heat grew.

In fact, even her own hand grew damper and began to slip from Jonathon's, but she held on with fervour.

"Your gear is heat and fire proof, you know," Jonathon quietly told her, leaving a wide gap between them and Jonathan. "You won't be cooked alive in the suit, and it won't melt onto your skin I'm sure the beasts' teeth won't be able to pierce the metal either."

_Reassuring._

He rapped his knuckles on her armour plating. "Reinforced. _Very_ time consuming to ensure that all these were up to scratch."

"You built these yourself?" _Where did he find the time?_

"Me?" He barked a laugh. "By the Angel no, I'm too busy for that. I did observe the blacksmith when he was making some parts, though." Jonathon looked at her admiringly from head to toe. "You look very nice in it," he murmured. "Red. Like your hair, naturally."

"Bronze like Jonathan's crown?"

His grin was feral. "I like coordination. Glad you noticed."

This conversation, however inane it was, was making her feel slightly better. It provided her with something to distract from the roars of the _things_ up ahead of them – especially since she had to really strain her ears to hear his whispers. Still, she could feel her heart thump, thumping in her chest, threating to break free of its cage. "Saffron hardly coordinates with anything."

"Mine's more symbolism that coordination." He fingered the top of his crown with is free hand. "It is slightly golden though, isn't it? Yours couldn't be silver to match your crown, obviously. That's for the demon towers."

Not that they existed anymore. But anyway.

"And," she licked her lips, "these – things-"

His eyes locked in on the action as a quiet, ominous chuckle escaped his own lips. "Saying their collective name will only make it real. Right?"

Her mouth hardened. "Neither you nor Jonathan has said their name yet. How am I supposed to know what they're called?" She could see that Jonathon knew that she had had an idea about what it was that she was going to come face-to-face with soon, but she ploughed on. "Is it possible that you're just as _scared?"_

Jonathon's head shot down to hers, his hair flashing as it caught and lost the flame's light, and snapped so close to her face that she feared that his gnashing teeth might catch her skin. Even Jonathan stopped to listen to whatever their brother might say. " _Wyverns_ ," he barked, driving her into the wall. "I'm not afraid of them, and if _you_ still are, you better stay close to me lest they tear your fucking head off. You've heard that certain animals can smell fear, like dogs. Bullshit. These are the only ones that can; _I_ made sure of it. It compensates for their lack of intelligence. Your abundance of Angel blood makes you even more delectable for them."

Her breath flew out of her; she seemed to say "wyverns" as it left.

"Or fire drakes," Jonathan said happily from the front. "Still lesser than a dragon, but at least these can also breathe fire."

"Say the name," he commanded. "You'll feel better. Fearing the idea and name of something is silly – wait till you _see_ them to feel genuine fear."

Clary tried not to whimper, but she still wasn't brave enough to say the name. _Wyvern._ Thanks to most of her Mundane life being spent with Simon, she knew _exactly_ what that was inside of fiction – but how different was that in reality?

" _Now_ ," Jonathon pushed, backing away from her slightly, but still keeping close enough to intimidate. "I can easily make you more afraid of me than you should be of them, if it means that this stops."

"Wyvern," Clary whispered, the word barely leaving her lips. Her brothers mouthed the word along with her.

"Again. Louder."

His strength seemed to flow into her, assuring her that there was nothing wrong with the name itself. There was nothing wrong with anything until it did something to you. "Wyvern," she said, firmer. "You've got wyverns."

_"We've_ got wyverns, Little Sister." He straightened, looking proud, as if he had hatched them himself. "Adults."

Jonathan snickered. "Not quite yet, Brother." He raised one shoulder. " _Almost_ adults."

"Old enough to fly, if we're daring enough." Jonathon slung his arm around Clary's shoulders and pulled her along with him, as they continued their brisk pace to the chamber in which the wyverns were kept. "Old enough to know what fear smells like, what it tastes like. Old enough to recognise their masters."

"Old enough to be weapons," Clary joined in.

Jonathan nodded. "Old enough to be weapons," he confirmed.

* * *

Jonathon and Jonathan were 6ft 5" and 6ft 3", respectively. Not a bad size when standing next to a 12ft monstrosity; they were at least half its size.

Clary, on the other hand, barely reached the height of one of its thick, scaled legs.

Previously, she had been cowering behind her brothers as they greeted their pets, their tall, muscled builds providing adequate protection and shielding from the wyverns in case something ended up going tragically wrong – but with a hand placed firmly on her back once again, Jonathon had propelled her in front of them so that she could truly appreciate their beauty.

And they were beautiful – if not, slightly ugly for having only two legs.

With the same obsidian black scales as her and her brothers' armour, the wyverns seemed to welcome them as their own sort of kin; albeit not after their curiosity about the little, quaking red-headed girl with the Angel blood and luscious fear was satisfied. After each in turn, from the largest to the smallest, (there were three, one for each of the Morgenstern children) had finished prodding her with their snouts that housed overgrown razors, each as long as her forearm, and even got close enough to sample a few of her tears that were freely running down her face, Jonathon had crouched down and lifted her up to balance temporarily on his hip, as if she really was a child; from then on, they must have assumed – if they were clever enough to rationalise – that she was also their master.

Their shrieks quietened, but they weren't completely silent. Occasionally, noise rumbled in their long throats, it having a similar clamour to that of thunder, but a racket only ensued once more when Jonathan began to dish out their meat chunks, standing well away from the resulting frenzy.

Their scales didn't glint with a different colour as their armour did when a ray of sunlight shone through a crack in the wall, and Clary wondered why Jonathon had had these designed so that they had a sheen if it wasn't to match the wyverns' scales; it couldn't solely have been because he liked "coordination" or because he had a fascination with the Shadowhunter's clothing poem. However, their underbellies weren't black at all; their scales were a dusty purple, but dark enough to almost seem for a moment or two as if it was black, and seemed to be made of softer flesh than the topside.

The first beast, arguably the burliest of them all, and the alpha when it came to feeding time with Jonathan, reached a height of 12ft 11", as she had been told by Jonathon. She, inherently the most aggressive, oldest and smartest, boasted a wingspan that reached almost half the size of the auditorium, (which bashed the other two away when they were spread) though it was rare of any of them to open them, knowing that the space that they were being confined in was becoming too small for the three of them to exist in. In fact, the third, the smallest, the thinnest, the runt, was the one that was most scarred and torn from the fights that must have broken out due to the competition of space.

Clary knew that, without a doubt, that runt was hers. Just like the alpha was Jonathon's. A direct reflection of their own hierarchy back at the manor.

Jonathon continued to recount more facts about his wyverns to her as he carried her past each of the lumbering masses. The ringed horns that were on her runt and Jonathan's wyvern were characteristics that only belonged to the males, and, as Clary herself could see on her pathetic creature, they were liable to being torn off in combat. The ivory spikes, however, were just a trait that belonged to both, and ran from the apex of their head and down to the tip of their tail; which, yet again, it was clear that either of her brothers' wyverns had used their spiked tails to gouge flesh from hers. Or perhaps it was from one of their hooked claws, made from the same ivory as their spikes.

And, much like herself, Jonathon's information told her that the runt was almost an entire foot smaller than the second largest: it was 11ft 9" against 12ft 7".

"So what do you think of them?" He seemed smug. "Not as bad as you were making out, right?"

She was still straddling his hip, cradling him close if the wyverns moved too close or too quickly, to his amusement, but she managed to mumble a simple "No".

"They're wonderful, aren't they?" He continued on. "One of my proudest accomplishments, I think. Of course, we could've done without _that_ waste of space-" he nodded disgustedly in the direction of The Runt, and Clary couldn't help but feel silently offended on her creature's behalf, "-but it would've been near impossible for you to ride one of the fitter ones."

"When are you going to move them from this place?" Clary asked absently. It was obvious that they needed to be relocated at some point, otherwise Jonathon's would kill the others to claim this territory as his own – but when? When was her deadline to pass on this information - and where were they going to be moved _to?_ They could hardly be put outside, in Brocelind Forest – they would be spotted too easily.

Or maybe that was what he wanted.

"These are being transferred to the mountains near our home, so as to be close to use when the time comes. You know, the ones that boarder Switzerland? Jonathan's taking them out there tomorrow and setting up parameters to prevent any of the Downworlders from accidentally slipping into their company or vice versa. The three of us can visit them whenever we wish, of course," he told her, reaching out his hand to press against the snout of his wyvern. Its happy snort of air blew all of her hair into her face. "There, they'll have adequate space to grow larger, find their own territories and hunt their own food. If we leave them here any longer I highly doubt that your runt will make it until the end of the month."

_Tomorrow._ That didn't leave Clary any time at all, and by the time that she would've managed to find someone to aid in her sabotage, it would be too dangerous for anyone to approach those mountains; the wyverns would know it too well.

"Do you want to ride yours, Clarissa?" Jonathan asked as he strode over to them, the bucket that had been emptied over an hour ago dangling from his fingertips. "Yours would be the easiest to mount."

Jonathon laughed excitedly; he encouraged her to do it.

Clary was undeniably certain that she wasn't going to touch or mount or have any form of contact with her runt or any of them, and she frantically shook her head as Jonathon told Jonathan "go on", leading both of them to aid her in mounting the back of her own beast. Jonathan hissed some demonic command (which made her stomach roil and Jonathan look green) or other to the wyvern, and it slumped to the floor, too weak and tired to fight against his masters; he then proceeded to scale its leg and swung himself to neatly straddle the creature's back, situating himself in between two of its spikes.

To Clary that didn't seem like the best of ideas, especially if the wyvern's momentum caused her to suddenly jolt forward and impale herself on its spike, but no one else seemed to be bothered about the health and safety issues.

Jonathon passed her up to Jonathan, and he sat her in front of himself, in between another set of spikes, which she could feel pressing into the centre of her back and stomach, easily killing her whatever way she rocked. Jonathan leaned forward and positioned her unwilling hands to grip a spike closer to the base of its neck, meaning that she was now brushing against several other curved, sharpened spikes that could tear her apart just as simply. "Keep a hold of this to keep balanced," Jonathan told her. "You're pretty secure here; it's unlikely that you'll slip out. We'll see you shortly." He patted the beast's rump and slid down its leg, leaving her alone.

"But-" she protested, eyes wide.

"Loosen up, Sister!" Jonathon guffawed heartily. "Look at her: our sister, Clarissa the Creator of Runes and the _first_ Wyvern Rider!" He slapped its thigh, and it shakily stood, tipping Clary sideways and forwards and backwards – every direction that she couldn't go in – as it tried to regain its balance. "Don't worry about the barbs, dear; reinforced armour, remember?"

While they had been talking, Jonathan had crossed the auditorium to open a hatch that led to the outside. It was too bright compared to the inside of the basement, and it temporarily blinded her, but she could see destroyed houses and smoking apartments through the glare. The wyverns cringed away from the onslaught of light, screaming in pain.

Before her eyes had adjusted to the sudden change in light, Jonathon had roared another demonic command, and sent her wyvern charging straight out of the hatch and into the sky a second later, with one almighty beat of its wings, torn though they were. Her eyes had squeezed shut, her originally loose grip on its spike had become white-knuckled, and the shrillest scream that she had ever heard ripped through her throat; only when they levelled out did Clary hesitantly open her eyes. Below her, she could hear her brothers whooping and cheering as she passed overhead.

She had never known that his armies had progressed far enough to claim the Gard, or that he had destroyed the Demon Towers so completely that it was as if they had never existed; in the spot that the Towers had once stood, Jonathon had erected a new, unknown monument that wasn't made from _adamas,_ obliterating the city's nickname. The Gard had been completely remodelled to be unrecognisable, to be the compound that housed his wyverns.

It was as if Idris never was.

The wyvern moved at a lazy pace, gently swaying from side to side, almost lulling Clary into tranquillity. The afternoon breeze kissed her face as they soared over Alicante and towards Brocelind Forest, where Morgenstern Manor was located. She was rather amazed that the wyvern even knew that he had to take her back to her home without any of the demonic commands, but perhaps the central hub of demonic activity was like a homing beacon for the wyverns.

Clary had never flown before, but she liked this. It was pleasant.


	17. Idols

_"The only people who ever called me a rebel were people who wanted me to do what they wanted."_

* * *

It was shortly after the first day that Clary had cautiously approached her wyvern again that she had noticed that she had gotten it all wrong. She was alone, having gone without alerting her brothers to her whereabouts, with every intent to try flying again since her first of aerial freedom was so sweet, when she saw Jonathan washing the alpha. She slowed her steps to watch him, hiding in a nearby brush in Brocelind Forest; the beast was obedient and devoted to him, allowing him to even clean behind its head, where it go no longer follow his every move.

And she realised: the alpha wasn't Jonathon's – it was _Jonathan's._

She couldn't quite comprehend it. The alpha, for all intents had purposes, had _clearly_ been created or bred or _whatever_ to be Jonathon's. It was almost like his own spiritual reflection in animal form; as was hers reflective of her, and how Jonathon's was reflective of Jonathan. Why had her brother graciously given up his demonic partner to her brother, who she doubted was worthy of a creature of that calibre.

Did he lose a bet? Was it a gift? A bribe? Or was it really closer to Jonathan than she had assumed?

Her brother was the king. _The King._ It didn't sit right with her, and she wouldn't believe for one moment that Jonathon didn't lust over the alpha. It was his by all rights.

Maybe there was something wrong with it. Maybe there was a problem with having a female wyvern. _Maybe._

She looked to where her own wyvern's territory began (a small, pathetic amount of land, seeing as his older siblings had taken the largest proportions of the mountains for themselves) and calculated her movements so that she could continue to remain undetected by Jonathan, but when she looked back to where he was one more time, he was gone. The wind picked up, blowing her scent (and her loose hair) in the direction of Jonathan's beast, and she knew that it was time that she moved before the monster thought that she was trespassing, despite the unknown location of her brother.

Clary began to back out of the undergrowth that she had covered herself with, purposely ignoring the cuts and scratches on her face from being surrounded by thorns, and started a sprint to a charred tree at the foot of rocky slope that she knew marked the beginning of his area. However, someone's rich guffaw was carried in the wind to where she was, accompanied with rustling from the small patch of forest that she had just left, caused her to pause in her sprint and slow down to a jog, looking behind her to see who it may be.

She hoped it wasn't a rebel. They weren't supposed to be anywhere within Jonathon's region, never mind inside the parameters that housed their wyverns.

If that was a rebel, her only hope was to outrun them until she reached her wyvern.

Her two brothers emerged from the thicket, once again dressed similarly to her. It was Jonathon who was laughing.

"And where do you think you're going, Little Fox?" He asked.

Clary stopped suddenly, guilty and relieved that it wasn't a rebel that was behind her. "Little Fox?" She questioned. _That_ was new.

He lifted his chin slightly, grinning mirthfully. "Of course," he said. "A little red-haired thing hiding in the undergrowth, what else could it be?" He outstretched his hand, beckoning her forward; she moved lightly towards him, still wary of the alpha that was lurking not 500 metres from them. "Now, where was it that you were going?"

"To fly," she said simply. She looked at them quizzically and returned their question.

"Home; after a good day of hunting," Jonathon said lightly, his eyes hardening with a frustrated glance at Jonathan.

Clary's own eyes flew between the two of them, eyebrows furrowing in confusion; they had nothing to show between the two of them of the supposed 'good' day of hunting. They had made no catches. Did they mean Shadowhunting? Even then, it made no sense; they had created a unity between all the old enemies of the Shadowhunters. She couldn't begin to think of a reason why they were hunting them within their territory.

Jonathon caught her staring and turning things over in her mind, and lifted his chin, looking down on her. He remembered her beginning the statement and raised an eyebrow, seemingly impressed with her. "And you…you were to go out flying without _us_?" He probed. "How did you suppose that you were going to fly across Idris when the wyverns are contained in their parameters and you don't know how to remove them?

She blushed, but offered no answer. Her brothers knew that she was stupid enough to not remember that the parameters existed; they moved on.

Jonathan's nose crinkled, looking away from Jonathon. "I'm surprised that runt even made it all the way home without a crash landing," he sneered.

Her lips pursed together. "He's getting stronger without your two bullies attacking him," she defended. Jonathan laughed this time. "And besides, _yours_ don't even fly. I've never once seen you ride them."

" _Stronger_?" Jonathan crowed. "That bastard doesn't even leave that decrepit cave of his most days – and he can't even hunt to adequately sustain himself. Ours could fly a lot better if we told them to, which we haven't yet, because we want our weapon to have the element of-"

With an amused smile at how riled up his sister was getting, Jonathon shushed Jonathan. "Let the vixen have and enjoy her runt," he said. "I'm sure she can easily bring him up to standard out here in the wild, which she claims to be increasing his worth-"

"It is," she insisted, cutting her brother off. She cringed as she realised what she had done.

Instead of becoming angry or berating her, Jonathon merely grinned. "And so it is, though I have yet to see him myself. You know she's done a fine job of bringing the Shadowhunter Battalion up to standard since you were given more important duties."

She would've scoffed, but the reasons behind his removal still ran deep within her.

Jonathan ground his teeth. "Fine," he forced out. "But he's now _your_ responsibility."

Clary smiled; her brothers were obviously trusting her a whole lot more now, if they were allowing her free reign with a creature that could hypothetically fly her far, far away from her brother's (and partially her) kingdom and give free roam of the Idris plains. "Thank you," she said gaily.

He narrowed his eyes. "Have you ever had a pet, Clarissa?""

"No," she slowly said.

"You wash it and make sure it doesn't become diseased or weakened – and if it does, you treat it – you train it using the demonic tongue, and, in your case, you make sure that it's getting fed," Jonathan instructed her. "If it misbehaves, you discipline it. You teach it to obey you, not love you."

She tried to stop from recoiling or flinching. She remembered the pain that was evident in his words and voice when Jace had told her, what felt like many years ago now, about the death of his hawk, killed by none other than his supposed father (Clary and Jonathon's _true_ father), Valentine Morgenstern. She still thought that it was a ridiculous thing to ever teach someone, especially through something as wasteful as death and to a child no less, but she continued to not understand it. What was the difference between obedience and love? How could have Jace trained that bird any different to make sure that it did not love?

Jonathon noticed the way that his sister became distracted in her thoughts, an advantage that he had gained from spending many hours a day with her – and even more considering that she had still not left his bedroom to return to hers – and decided to move the conversation to more positive things. To keep his sister from becoming depressed was the goal now, until he was sure that she was once again stable. "And you name it, of course," Jonathan said. "It can't forever be referred to as The Runt."

Clary blinked, bringing herself back to reality. "Name it?" She would've never had thought that Jonathon or Jonathan had named their wyverns – that'd mean that they would form some sort of attachment with it if they were bestowing something as personal as a name to it. Wasn't giving it a name a form of love? Was that where obedience was lost? "What have you named yours?"

He pointed to her, still watching them from a ledge in her mountain range. "Abaddon," Jonathan stated proudly. "It means the Angel of the Abyss or the 'Destroyer', naturally. It's from the Bible."

She nodded. The looks on her brothers faces was enough for her to know that Abaddon was not a _real_ Angel, but a demon. Lucifer's Angel.

She hadn't even known that either of them owned a Bible. "I couldn't think of a better name for her," she truthfully complimented.

Jonathon smiled and nodded his head once, firmly. "Of course I agree with you, Jonathan. After all, I _was_ the one to suggest against something as ordinary as Lucifer," he said. "I also found my name in the Bible, dearest sister. Well, I say Christianity, but I suppose it depends on what interpretation you want to place your basis. I've decided that he's going to be called Cain – and there are a lot of stories about Cain." His eyes glittered in the morning sun. "One states that he killed his brother, Abel, out of jealousy and rage after God rejected his appeal to marry the sister that Abel was marrying." His eyes roved up and down her body once and looked to his right, to where Jonathan stood. His wolfish grin showed off his sharp teeth. "Luckily, Cain – the name - has no _real_ place here. When the mating season comes around, yours is going to be nowhere near Abaddon. Right, Clarissa?"

She nodded once again; she didn't point out that Cain was thought of as the Prince of Hell, which was clearly not what Jonathon was. Maybe his wyvern was the Prince in comparison to hers, but Jonathon was the _King._ "Okay," she said. "I'll keep him to myself. If you give him a chance though, you'll see that he's just as worthy as Cain to have offspring with Abaddon."

Their faces said that they thought it was highly unlikely that anything of the sort was going to happen.

"You just work on giving him a name, for now, Princess," Jonathan suggested. He looked at her in such an amused way that Clary thought that if she wasn't wearing her crown, he'd ruffle her hair. "You can't train him without a name."

* * *

Though Jonathon had said that she was able to stay outside and be with her wyvern, they both had guided her back to the manor to equip her with everything she needed to look after and train him properly, wanting to make sure that she was properly prepared before they allowed her to be alone with a creature like that. She had been sat at the desk in the library, where their theoretical training sessions took place, while her brothers stacked books around her and informed her about the contents and necessity of each one. Once the eight stacks surrounding her had more or less surpassed her sitting height, they left her to her own devices after making sure that she didn't have any questions or anything that they needed to go back over.

"So you're all ready to go then, Little Fox?" Jonathon asked, hovering in the doorway. Jonathan had already left to deal with something else.

She had forgotten their overboard of knowledge moments after it switched to the next brother.

Clary had nodded.

"Stay here," he reminded her firmly, and closed the door behind him.

After rifling through the stacks and picking up all the mythology and religious books, like the Bible – which seemed to have a good success rate considering Jonathan _and_ Jonathon had found baby names from there – and waddled back outside to where she had left her wyvern. She didn't want to be inside anymore, and her brother's said that she could enjoy him, so she would choose his name at his side - if he allowed her.

She wondered whether he would understand any of the names. If they were _that_ intelligent; her brothers didn't seem to think they were.

* * *

"Adriel?" Clary suggested, running her index finger along their line of text. She frequently kept losing where she was; she had stolen a witchlight before she had left the manor, but her wyvern kept moving and casting shadows. He couldn't have found a darker cave in the mountains if he tried. "The angel of death and destruction."

As usual, he didn't react. He just continued to watch her with his large, yellowy, lazy eyes.

She turned the page. "Azrael? Dumah?" A mere blink was all she got in response. She flicked through more frantically, only skimming the first line of the text before suggesting a name. She skipped from book to book, all open in front of her; from the Bible to the Qur'an, from the Iliad and the Odyssey to the Tanakh, to the Guru Granth Sahib and every other religious and mythological book in between, all translated into English for their perusal. "Thanatos? Zadkiel? Kushiel? Leliel? Maalik?"

Nothing.

She grunted in frustration and threw the Qur'an to the floor. Out of shock, her wyvern lifted its head from the floor and bared its fangs at her, growling lowly in his throat. She should've been intimidated, scared even, but she stared him down until he returned to his original position. "Maybe I should call _you_ Lucifer and be done with it. Maybe something as pathetic and unoriginal as the Archangel Michael. Abbadon, Cain and Michael," she mocked. Clary sighed and ran her had across her face, looking out of the cave mouth to the setting sun, casting Morgenstern Manor in a warm glow. Her brothers would've been looking for her for a few hours now. "Maybe I shouldn't name you after an angel at all; your brother and sister aren't, courtesy of my brothers."

It snorted; tendrils of smoke curled from its nostrils. It was the most reaction that he had given her this entire time. Clary took it as a good sign.

"Well," she said, paging through more slowly this time, "most of these relate to who you _are_ : Apepi, Apophis, Balan, Erebus, Moko-Titi, Vritra and Ruman."

Apepi, Apophis, Moko-Titi and Vritra all related to him being a serpent demon of some sort, which she had already decided were at the bottom of her list of names. Balan was a prince of Hell, which she thought that he might enjoy, seeing as his brother and sister also seemed to have names relating to their royal positions – and, perhaps, he'd like the idea of him being more important than a runt. Ruman, on the other hand, was more angelic – and even was considered one in some traditions – than the other names that she had previously put forward. She hadn't expected him to like it, seeing as he was distant when it came to the other angel names, but it was after this name that he roared, scaring a flock of birds in a nearby tree.

She had looked at him curiously, wondering whether it was because he didn't like the name or _because_ he liked it that he roared. Maybe it had nothing to do with the name at all; maybe he had just tired of her presence after this failure. "Ruman," Clary said again, watching him cautiously. He roared, equally as loud. She repeated the name several times over to him, and watched as he took joy in roaring his agreement each time.

She thought that her brothers had never really known Ruman at all. He was _her_ wyvern.

His name was from Islamic lore, which she was partially thankful of, since the other two had their names taken straight from the Bible. Ruman deserved to have a completely different name; he was nothing like his brother and sister. "Ruman serves in the infernal regions, greeting each condemned soul that is sent to him and forcing it to sit down and write out each and every evil deed committed while on the earth. In some cases, the writing takes nearly forever, as Ruman is aware of every wicked act, from the smallest to the largest, and waits impatiently and cruelly, while the sinner scribbles them down. Once they are finished, the poor souls are handed over to Munkar and Nakir for the inflicting of eternal punishment," she read aloud to her wyvern. He seemed satisfied.

She considered him for a long while. The name, perhaps, agreed with him; he most likely remembered everything that Jonathan and Jonathon had done to him, every attack Cain and Abaddon had launched on him – and, would most likely remember everything that she had been encouraged to do to him, to keep him in line. He may wait until he could exact his revenge onto those, or he may wait until they all died and he was free.

But he was just a base creature, Clary reminded herself, bringing to mind everything that her brothers had used as evidence; brought and created from the depths of Edom, the dragons' less intelligent, less aggressive, smaller, weaker cousin. They were there to serve, not pass judgement. Not as a mythological Ruman was supposed to.

"Ruman," she whispered one more time to herself. Ruman seemed to have lost its appeal on the dragon, as he pressed his head to the stone floor and closed his eyes. "Ruman, Abaddon and Cain. The Demon Monarchy."

* * *

The wind was blowing softly in the nearby trees as the sun continued to bleed a conflagration of colours into the sky, setting lower and lower in the sky, almost completely covered by the mountains on the opposite side of Idris, by the boarder of Germany; it was a peaceful night, but something in the coming darkness disturbed Ruman very suddenly. His head lifted from the floor, eyes open and burning like embers, and stared out across the forest; his pupils, which seemed little more than pinpricks, seemed to fixate on Morgenstern Manor. A low growl thundered in his throat, growing steadily until he was on his feet and loping towards the mouth to look out, teeth bared. Ruman's mighty jaws opened and a defending scream was released.

In the distance, through ringing ears, she heard Cain and Abaddon react the same way.

Her stomach sinking, she removed her hands from her ears and pushed herself to her feet. She picked up her witchlight rune stone and looked at her distressed wyvern, judging the danger.

Ruman was standing at the mouth of the cave, his muscled body and partially unfolded wings taking up all the space and blocking the view of whatever it was that they saw. Cautious of not knowing how her wyvern was going to react around her when agitated, she squeezed past its legs and slid down the slope; she would have to leave the books behind in his cave until she was able to come back and collect them. Using her feet and hands (that became sliced open from the sharpened stones and few carcasses) to steer and slow her, she slid down the hill until she landed on the edge of a piece of rock that jutted out from the mountainside; rocks were knocked loose from her descent, creating a landslip, and bashed her head and legs. Some even opened cuts on her skin. She stood on the ledge and looked out across the forest like Ruman had done, but with all the foliage so close together, and with Morgenstern Manor mostly shielded by it all, Clary was unable to see whatever the problem was.

But there had to be one. The wyverns were still wailing, despite not having flown their nests yet.

She had to get back home.

Crawling down from the ledge, her cuts dirty and stinging, she resumed the rush back to the manor. She held herself against a withered tree that was charred from lightning strikes, and with only a few branches strong enough to hold her weight, to keep her steady for a moment as the incline became steeper and her feet slipped on the slick ground. She was stuck here, unless she wanted to tumble down the rest of the crag and face possible additional injury, worse than any of the small cuts that she had already accumulated. Sliding down to the shelf had been a bad decision on her part; she should've planned her journey more thoroughly.

The sky darkened overhead as large black clouds encompassed the evening sky. The wind picked up, blowing the clouds across the corners of the sky and into place quickly.

Not wanting to be stuck on a mountainside in a storm, with a path that already provided no grip, Clary had to make a quick, brash decision. She held onto the branch with one hand and moved forward to gauge the severity of the slope, wary of her slipping feet. More rocks escaped beneath them and tumbled to the base of the mountain. There were no trees and little foliage that would present a problem and cause further injury if she threw herself down there; all the trees were higher up the mountain, where it was flatter and they could root themselves.

Her free hand curled into a fist. She wanted to pray, but there was no one left. She wanted to wish, but there was no use in wishing or hoping. There was only need and the ability to control her own fate. She was Princess Clarissa Adele Morgenstern of the Morgenstern Kingdom, of Idris; she was the Creator of Runes, the First Rider of Wyverns.

She could get down the crag.

She let go of the branch. As she slipped further, she brought her arms up to cover her face, her fingers weaving into her hair to keep her in position, and bent her knees. She imagined herself already falling, and threw herself to the ground a foot or so from her original position.

Clary hit the ground with a thud. Her head repeatedly collided with the rock, making her dizzy, but she kept in her curled pose. This wasn't exactly something that she had been taught in training – how to roll down a mountain safely specifically – but learning how to _fall_ safely was a big topic when it came to fighting, and she was glad to be able to put it to use. By the time she reached the bottom, black hovered at the edge of her vision and coloured spots marred her eyesight; as Clary uncurled her legs and flexed her hands, she frequently moved in and out of consciousness. Other than her jarred mind and bruised ribs, nothing more had affected her body. Her gear had protected her and was now scratched and slightly torn.

After waiting for the feeling of nausea to pass, she had pushed herself to her feet on shaky hands and moved into the forest. The wyverns were still screeching; quieter now, but still loud and attention-drawing. The land wasn't dark as much as murky. She held out the witchlight in her closed palm, beams of light shooting out from the cracks in her fist, and used it to light her way.

There was a faint tremble in the earth. She pressed further into the woodland, the mist wrapping around her like a shawl and – _yes,_ she thought, freezing in a glade that seemed to pulse around her. She looked around herself, eyes wide and panicked; nothing moved, not even the trees. There were no eyes glowing in the darkness and no shared breaths.

The earth shuddered harder with every step that she had taken, but there was no noise. Nothing.

The forest was dead.

Her body tensed, the muscles contracting. Her feet moved to rest on the balls of her feet and she crouched low. There was something very, very wrong.

Slowly, a buzzing noise grew around her – but she didn't move. She didn't know where to move, didn't know what this noise was or where it was coming from. Clary jumped when a horse, saddled but without a rider, ran through the clearing and towards the mountains, barely noticing her. Nothing followed and sound didn't return after the horse's foot-falls died out.

As soon as that happened and it disappeared from complete sight, Clary ran in the direction that the horse had come from. It hadn't been a demonic horse, which was unusual; the whole of Jonathon's stables were filled with them, he preferring their demonic counterparts as they healed faster, ran quicker and were stronger, above other qualities that seemed to make them surpassed Mundane horses. Which meant that that horse was from Shadowhunter rebels; it was those rebels, their created enemy and the ones that were attacking their masters, which were agitating the wyverns.

Her fingers wrapped around the crown atop her head, the silver triangles biting into them. If she was discovered by rebels, then she feared that she would be taken captive. It was stupid of her to waltz around Idris, where rebels gathered in numbers under Jonathon's radar and planned their attacks, in her crown, playing a princess. Secretly indulging herself in the thought that she was still rebelling against her brothers. She wasn't, and if she was caught, she might be worse off than being in Jonathon's hands; they wouldn't care who she was, they just wanted the blood of the monarchy. Clary released the crown and ran faster, dodging the trees as she went.

She flew past Lake Lyn and followed the stream out of the forest so that she'd be able to enter Morgenstern Manor from the front. Before she was able to reach the end of Brocelind Forest, fires grew in front of her, set by the rebels; she sharply changed direction, deciding that she had to be caught in the inferno if she was going to continue with her original plan, but fighting appeared amongst the trees. More horses ran past her – this time with riders atop them – and she hurriedly hid herself behind trees.

She could see her home. It was right there, right in front of her. _It was right there._

Her brothers were also right there.

Clary hadn't seen Jonathon outside in many weeks, never mind not seeing him actively fighting in any of the battles. She knew it was because he was the king, and he was too important to involve himself in dangerous work such as war, but also because he had to look after her; and, like she had observed when she was forced into their grotesque game of life-sized chess, he was enjoying cutting people down immensely, made only more enviable by the skill at which he did it with. It was obvious that he had been protected from his bloodlust from quite some time, and in that time had grown gradually - until it was freed in times like now. Jonathan, on the other hand, was killing and duelling the Shadowhunters as if it was his duty, and nothing more. She had expected much more than that from him. Both were incredibly regal upon their warhorses, crowns and expensive armour and all.

A meaty hand wrapped around her throat as she watched her brothers and the battle in front of her. She gasped at the unexpectedness of it, and clawed viciously at the hand, hoping to remove it and escape; it only tightened, cutting off her air for a precious few seconds in a warning. "Keep still now, Princess," the voice, raspy from the smoke from the fires, whispered in her ear, dragging her out from behind the tree. His fingers curled into her throat. "I'd hate to hurt such a pretty Morgenstern. Even if you're all incestuous bastards."

 _Wrong,_ Clary assuredly thought. Despite every other shameful thing that she had witnessed and committed whilst she was Jonathon's heir, she was proud that she had never sunk as low to accept her brother's advances. She never would, she hoped. Not of her own willing choice. And she was confident that her parents had never pandered in such immoral activities – they, at least, were blissfully free of siblings.

She struggled against his grasp, knowing that she was going to be used as nothing more than a bargaining chip – one that was never going to work. Did this delusional Shadowhunter truly believe that her brothers were going to stop this battle because she was in his grasp? Did he really think that she was going to allow him to drag her before her brothers without fighting back? Jonathon may have made her a princess, but what this man seemed to have forgotten was that she also was a trained Shadowhunter.

She tried to throw her head back to smash his nose, but his other had had come behind her head and held it still. _Speed rune._ The man laughed, and put her into a headlock for good measure instead. She bit his arm until blood was drawn, but she was only slapped in return. Others saw that one of their soldiers was preoccupied holding the princess and arranged themselves around him, continuing their duel as they created a protective circle.

Someone plucked the crown from her head and giggled. "Look at me, the righteous Princess Morgenstern," she mocked.

"We should ransom her, Arv," one of the Shadowhunters said. It was a young girl with cropped black hair and a scar that stretched from her left temple to the right side of her chin; the scar looked angry, like Jonathon's own damaged flesh. Clary twisted her head to look at her; she wasn't the one to have stolen her tiara. "Give her back to Valentine's son for everyone in his dungeons. Create a bigger army against them, one to win for sure."

"Ransom?" A bald man barked a laugh, easily parrying with one of Jonathon's demons. He stabbed it in its throat with his seraph blade, and it folded in on itself with a scream, vanishing back to the other dimension. "We should kill her and continue on. One less Morgenstern to be rid of."

Someone else was going to throw a suggestion to her captor, but he – "Arv" - hissed for them to shut up. Turning away from them, he called out to her brothers, ridiculing her brothers with their self-chosen titles. "Prince Jace and King Sebastian," he said with disdain.

Clary cringed; those were such old names. She wondered whether they knew that they were and they used them only for further insult. They must've; even she knew that Jonathon no longer went by Sebastian by the time she was dragged before him – that time, not as an involuntary bargaining chip. In any case, she didn't think that calling them by their old names would gain the rebels any favours when trying to barter with them.

The soldiers around them stopped fighting as they caught sight of the red-headed traitor secured in the crook of a rebel's elbow and surrounded by their guards. Under the watchful eye of their commanders, neither side moved or struck out in the moment of distraction; many were Shadowhunters – rebels verses traitors, the two words easily used on both sides of the coin to describe the other – and still upheld some forms of chivalry.

She didn't need a crown for those to know that she was Clarissa Morgenstern; her hair, so much like her mother's, was tell-tale enough. Her head was kept down, facing the floor by a hand on the back of her head, but she imagined that her brothers were angry with her for being captured; for escaping without a word about her destination, for staying out so late and for allowing herself to be in confinement. Yet, a part of her doubted that even Jonathon and Jonathan would allow themselves to show such emotion; to show that kind of weakness would either confirm that Shadowhunters' decision or destroy it.

Still, Jonathon must at least scowl or sneer at the one who had taken the physical embodiment of her royalty.

"Your Highnesses," he started again. He didn't bow, nor did any of the others from what she could tell of the positioning of their feet, but a knife pressed to her throat. Her back tried to arch, to pull her throat away from the weapon, but she was restricted. "I do believe to have found myself in possession of something that we both have a common interest in, and would preferably like to be alive. Perhaps we can be reasonable."

She had no idea why he wanted her, but she didn't want to. She didn't imagine that it was for anything moral or reasonable.

"Jonathon-!" Clary choked out, clawing at the arm holding her. It tightened, cutting off her oxygen momentarily again. " _Parameters._ Abaddon! _"_

"Shut up, Clarissa, darling," he said smoothly. He sounded amused, _that bastard._

"Abaddon?" One of the Shadowhunters surrounding Clary asked, before being quietened by their leader.

"The Princess means abandon, of course," Arv ignorantly said. "As in she wants Prince Jace and King Sebastian to abandon her, if it will keep up the war. Isn't that right, sweetheart? You're against reasonable surrender."

She growled lowly in her throat. Jonathon didn't bother to correct him about their true names, either of the times.

"Of course," he said in place of his sister's answer. "And, my good General, I don't think it would be in _your_ interest to lay a hand on her. Put it down. I can already see that she is out of my reach; putting her further away, into the afterlife, won't change anything."

Grudgingly, she sensed, Arv put it down.

"Good," he purred. "Now, do tell me your terms. I bet they're delicious."

"Hand over your control to us and leave Idris," the Shadowhunter said, "and we'll give you your precious sister."

She heard Jonathan curse. "You're no better than us, you fucking royal-wannabes." She heard a thud on the ground, and she imagined that he threw his seraph blade. "By the Angel, you lot never get any less pathetic."

Her teeth grinded against one another. She hadn't believed either of them when her brothers had told her that the only rebels left in Idris were selfish and as immoral as she thought that they were; over half, they had stated with absolute confidence, weren't fighting for freedom from this new monarchy and the resurrection of the Clave. Now she did, after coming into contact with these "fucking royal-wannabes". Everyone wanted a little piece of the complete authority that Jonathon held – but, for some, a little piece wasn't enough. _Some_ wanted the total control that he wielded for himself.

Jonathon hushed him. "Please excuse my siblings," he said. "It appears that they can't keep their mouths shut during kingly business." Still as amused as ever. "Jonathan, go heard in the rest of the army for this. I want them to be able to choose their allegiance. If you will allow him, Sir, of course."

Clary's mind reeled. She had never heard Jonathon be subservient to anyone before, but there was an undertone of mockery also evident in his voice. Maybe Arv or the others couldn't hear it, not being as attune to Jonathon as she was after spending over six months with him, but Jonathon was setting up a trap for them all. He had taken notice of her, after all. Suddenly she was glad that she couldn't see everyone else, and everyone else couldn't see her; she allowed herself a small, secret smile.

"By all means, Prince Jace." He sounded drunk on the prospect of succeeding in his dreams and wishes. "Bring forth my new army."

Keeping to their act - to their game – Jonathan rode his horse from the clearing, towards the mountains. Towards their supposed army. The sky battalion.

It was all so funny that she had to refrain from laughing.

"Yours is a reasonable request, my good General," Jonathon continued, keeping up the distraction. He was so good at trickery, making it seem as amusing as he found it, conversational, even. Nothing like the demon that he was supposed to be. "Though, I feel that we may be able to come up with an alternative to my siblings and I being exiled. Idris _is_ the homeland of Shadowhunters after all."

"But you and your siblings are hardly Shadowhunters, are you?" Arv replied, as amused as her brother. "A Demon and an Angel, with another, adoptive Angel. A little more than just pure _Shadowhunter._ "

Clary pictured Jonathan becoming closer and closer to the mountain; she imagined it growing in size as his horse carried him to it. His horse, of the demonic sort; the much preferred breed of Jonathon's. Stronger. Bigger. _Faster._

For once, she was glad that Hell had given Earth some worthwhile creatures.

"Worthwhile Shadowhunters, nonetheless," Jonathon said, as if he really cared about not being exiled. She imagined that he waved a careless hand in her direction. "That Angel can create new runes on whim; the other is the best Shadowhunter of this generation."

"Oh yeah?" Her captor was becoming increasingly naïve. She hated him. "And what about you?"

She heard the flapping of wings in the distance, coming ever closer, and she knew that Jonathon could hear it too. As far as the other, unaware Shadowhunters went, Clary had no idea whether they could hear the Morgenstern's salvation until it was too late, and the black, endless sky was lit up in flames.

For all the tough talk and the hard-fought battle that they must've given, the protective shield around Arv broke as they ran from the fireballs. Arv himself even retreated, but not after jerking his arm back up to stab her and ending her connection to the earth.

Before he could, however, one of Jonathan's own throwing knives protruded from his eye. Wet, sticky blood ran down his face like tears and onto her, as his dead weight crumpled to the floor, taking her with him. Feeling extraordinarily nauseous, she threw his arm off her and escaped from the corpse. Around her, only Jonathon's faithful soldiers remained, standing still and strong despite being trapped in a ring of fire; the three wyverns had worked to save them from the threat of rebels, but they had killed them in this way.

The black smoke was curling up and past the trees, blanketing the entire wood so that it was hard to see and hard to breath. Everywhere she looked was more encompassed in more flames. There was a distant sound of horseshoes again, as she choked on the smoke, eyes watering and chest constricting, and then she was pulled on top of a horse by strong arms and was held in their cage. Knowing that the rebels had all fled, she permitted herself to relax against the body, who seemed to be unaffected by the burning wood, and she knew to be one of Jonathon's – or Jonathon himself, though she thought that he would've said something to her by now. Cain, Abaddon and Ruman flew across the sky above them, blending in and out of the night sky, occasionally diving toward the trees, which usually resulted in an onslaught of screams.

The rider took her through a narrow gap in a wall of flames, ahead of other soldiers who were also fleeing through the gap from the cage that they had been placed in to cook. Once they passed, the air had become noticeably and miraculously cleaner, and Clary gulped it down hungrily. It was only when they arrived outside the stables did she realise that it had been Jonathan that had picked her up, separated and disorientated, and saved her from the oven. He lowered her from his horse and tied it up in its pen, before frog-marching her inside without a word, and before Jonathon, who was pacing across the dais and addressing the survivors from the battle.

There were warlocks, werewolves, Shadowhunters, faerie knights, demons – and even vampires gathered. She and Jonathan waited in the back corner for him to finish; Jonathan's hand remained firm on her shoulder.

Once his army was dismissed – a large percentage of which exited the Manor to take up their allocated residence outside – he dropped into his through, taking up his usual languid position. "Well, well, well, Little Fox," he said beguilingly, "it seems that you're slier than what your name suggests." His fingers tapped out a tune on the arm of the throne. "Did I happen to forget to mention that you were to stay in the manor today for a reason? Did I neglect in saying that if you ever left, you had to alert me or Jonathan to your whereabouts and give a time of when you'd be back?"

He had, but that wasn't exactly what Jonathon wanted to hear.

At her silence, he continued: "Well, as the one who makes the rules and is superior to you, I didn't think that it was necessary to impart reasoning to the orders that I pass. You, on the other hand, need to give me adequate reasoning about why you did it."

Jonathan pushed her forward to stand centre-stage, so to speak. It was unnecessary, of course. She was going to move herself away from him anyway.

"I lost track of time," she said. "I was just seeing what name my– my wyvern liked." She almost said his name.

The boys seemed terribly entertained by this, and even laughed quietly to themselves. "Oh?" Jonathon said. "And did he like any? Has he finally got a name or did your purposeful endangerment bring naught?"

"Ruman. He liked the name Ruman, from Islamic-"

"Lore," Jonathon finished, waving his hand to quieten her. "Yes, yes, I know." He rested his chin on his fist, propped up on the arm of the throne, looking at her critically. "So. You know nothing of this attack then?"

Clary shook her head. She had thought that this attack was very impromptu indeed – and badly timed, as a matter of fact, seeing as the wyverns were newly relocated. If they had wanted to launch an attack such as that, then they should've done it the last week.

His jaw tightened, a vein in his forehead swelling, but he seemed satisfied with her answer. He nodded stiffly and dismissed her, reminding her that if she was going to visit Ruman again, then she was to tell him or Jonathan where and when she was going and when she was going to be back, as she had failed to do today. For now, she would also be accompanied by a few, select soldiers as guards; there were still some other rebels lurking in his land and she needed to be safe. She nodded, placating him, and then walked out of the chamber without an escort. Jonathan stayed behind.

"Oh," Jonathon said as if he had forgotten. It was unlikely. "And you can keep my witchlight. Another form of good faith."


	18. Prisoners

Her brothers were laughing, knocking into each other as the encouraged the other to throw the next knife. Demons seemed to twist their features into something ugly and unnatural as they enjoyed themselves; sometimes they looked as she knew them, but then their heads snapped to the side, and a demonic face was trying to break free of their human skin.

They levelled their predatory gaze at her.

Her fingers curled against the wooden chair's arm, fervently trying to rip her arm free of their bonds. The chair rocked back and forth as she tried to escape. She should've toppled to the floor, unable to use her feet to right herself as they too were bound, but some equally unnatural force planted the four legs firmly back on the ground and kept them there.

"Hold still now, Sister," Jonathon ordered, lining his knife up with her head, the target. "You wouldn't want the apple to topple."

They roared with laughter. It made her skin crawl. Her nails bit into the wood, clawing it apart.

Jonathon suddenly changed the position of his knife and threw it so fast that Clary could only close her eyes and pray that it hit its mark. As it happened, it did; but the apple wasn't his target anymore.

She screamed until her throat became raw. Her face was wet with her tears, but she didn't dare open her eyes to look at them – or her foot, where his knife was now protruding from. Keeping to his order, Clary didn't even flinch. The apple balanced.

"Fuck," he cursed, looking anything but annoyed. "A bit short of the mark, if I do say so myself."

"Poor aim, Brother," Jonathan jested, stepping up to the mark and displaying his own knife. It was serrated. "You didn't even come close to the apple."

"Please," she whimpered. She didn't want to play their games any longer. "I'm not target practice. Stop it."

Jonathan lowered his knives and turned to Jonathon, and Clary had hoped that she had been spared.

"You hear that, Jonathon?" He said, twirling the knife in his hand without even watching it. "She's _begging_."

"I told you she would," Jonathon replied, pleased. "It's not a confession though, is it?"

"What?" Clary said. "Please, Jonathon. I haven't done _anything."_

"Could have me fooled," Jonathan snarled.

She heard him take a step towards her, and his face was suddenly in hers, breathing harshly. "Open your eyes, Clarissa," he barked, causing her to flinch. The apple wobbled, but miraculously didn't fall. " _Look at your brother."_

When she did, albeit hesitantly, he smiled. His mouth didn't seem to be large enough to fit the hordes of teeth that hid inside his head, all long and pointed.

As he spoke, Clary caught a glimpse of a forked tongue. "You deserve this state," he told her. "For everything you've done. You should keep your eyes open, and not hide from reality." His head snapped to the left, and a demon gleamed beneath the mask. "I will tear you apart and put you back together, and only then will you escape this."

All she could do was cry, and restrain her screams when Jonathon wrenched the knife out of her foot. All the while, he kept his black, glittering eyes on her, waiting for more begging.

"Take aim, Jonathan," he said, walking back over to his brother when she disappointed. He licked the angel blood off his knife slowly, staring his sister in the eye.

Jonathan raised his knife – no, _knives_. Four in total. All with serrated edges. They followed each other in quick succession – except for the fourth, which stayed steady in his other hand - drawing blood and nailing her to the chair. One to her right breast, another struck her straight through her left eye, and the last pierced her throat. After it all, Clary was surprised that she was still alive.

She vomited on herself. She didn't know what to feel, what to do. She was in so much _pain._ Blood coated her face, merging with the blood that spurted from her throat, warm and viscous; some even dripped into her mouth. Her shirt was damped by her chest wound.

"One last apple, Jonathan." He was still licking the blood from his knife with a tongue that was no longer forked, no longer interested in what was happening. Jonathon sat comfortably on the floor.

Oh, yes. The final apple. She had thought that Jonathan had 'accidentally' missed the apples, like he had told Jonathon that he had, but neither seemed to think that he had. Apple of her eye, Adam's apple and her breast, whether she had ever heard them referred to as apples or not.

Clary inclined her head, hoping that this would be the final thing to kill her. She didn't know why she was even still alive; the knife should've pierced her brain and killed her; the one in her chest should've pierced her heart - or her lungs, at the least; and the one in her throat should've suffocated her. They had been taught where to imbed their knife to cause the most amount of pain, while keeping their opponent still alive, and it wasn't any of these places. These were where you struck to _kill._

So why wasn't she dead?

"Ah, submission," Jonathan drawled, lowering his knife. "Maybe you should take this one, Jonathon."

Taking one last, long lick of the knife, he flung it at her without even looking.

* * *

There was one thing that she had learnt about Jonathon quickly: he never slept. He was straddling her, pinning her arms to her sides on the bed, his face hovering above hers when she opened her eyes.

It wasn't the face that had been in her nightmare – and there was an absence of Jonathan, the knives and the excruciating pain – but his eyes were the same, the same fathomless black that haunted her at every turn. There was nothing similar about her dream in this reality, other than the underlying cruelness of her brothers (granted, they hadn't turned their hand upon her for a few months) and her vulnerable position, arms restrained.

She knew all that, but she still screamed when she saw him.

Contrary to how she expected events to play out, he didn't stop her from screaming. He merely released her wrists, and sat back on his haunches; her legs still bore the brunt of his weight, keeping her from running. A finger pressed to his quirked lips, and he softly hushed her until she stopped screaming.

"Nightmares again?" He asked quietly, his face trying hard to be sombre. ""Hm. This is becoming quite regular. Are you sure you're not going mad?"

She barely heard him, the sounds of her fear still echoing in her ears. She felt dizzy, and still wasn't over the embarrassment of having him see her experience another nightmare that was about _him._

They were becoming rather regular nowadays, though they weren't _always_ about Jonathon. Sometimes they were about her; about the angels or demons; about the rebels or about what Jace would do if he ever got his hands on her. Nevertheless, no matter what they were about, Jonathon always liked to assume that they were to do with him – and it was constantly better to let him think what he liked instead of listing more weaknesses. He thought that she was going mad, no matter how many times that she denied the prospect of an unstable mind. "The only one here who's _mad,_ is you", she'd tell him, but it was the one time that he didn't like talking about himself. In any case, he only thought that she was going crazy because he had linked two unrelated events together in his mind; it all began with not allowing Clary to go outside and ended with the start of the nightmares.

A few days after the small scuffle between those that her brothers called the "fucking royal-wannabes" (more commonly known as the "Glory Hunters"), she had gone out again with a few personal guards, as she had been ordered to. They were supposed to be on high alert, as, after Jonathan had finished scouting on Abaddon, there was evidence – and a strong suspicion - that there were still some groups hiding within Jonathon's lands. On the way to Ruman's cave, to collect the stacks of books that she had left there, they were ambushed by a mixture of faeries and Shadowhunters; some of her men fell immediately, but there were enough to put her on a horse with a rider and take her back to the manor before she had a chance to pick up fallen weapons and join in.

They probably did it because they were wary that she was going to turn on them and join the rebels, but Clary was unsure who she would've attacked, if she had been given the chance. Perhaps she'd take on both groups and set herself completely free, or work with her guards. Now knowing that the rebels had different factions within them now, all fighting for different things – such as the selfish Glory Hunters that she had witnessed, and rumours of so many others – she wanted to be careful about who she fought for. She'd only want to support the original group that she was with, the original rebel _group_ , the ones who only wanted to get rid of her brother but not resurrect the Clave. There was another group for that, she had learned; the "Loyalists".

Anyway, once she was returned to the manor, Jonathon had tried to order her and Jonathan to be put in separate carriages that would take them to a safe house in an unknown location, far away from his palace where they'd be spread out and hidden from the rebels. He deemed the ambushes 'too close a shave' in such little time, claiming that they were getting brave since all three Morgensterns were living under one roof; if they could breach the walls and capture even _one_ of them, then they had power over the three of them – and that wasn't something that the king was ready to accept. When Jonathon stated that he'd be staying at Morgenstern Manor without them, to continue running the kingdom as the king, they had refused to leave him in the coming danger; though, Clary wasn't nearly as adamant as Jonathan was. She understood that no amount of begging from her to him was going to do anything to change his mind if he really wanted to leave them behind, and that he was most likely more capable than the two of them at surviving on his own against his enemies; she didn't know why Jonathan couldn't see that – couldn't he remember a time before being with their brother?

Still, she was surprised that, with a twist of his lips, he caved in to their persistence and settled on prohibiting them from going outside (for purposes other than war) instead. Though it was fair, she supposed, the same thing that she was also told by both of her brothers, she had been discovered trying to sneak out in the aftermath of his order several times, and so was later put under careful watch. Neither of her brothers were happy about it, she knew, but other than constant surveillance, they hadn't done anything punishing to her to prevent it from happening anymore; but she didn't want to push her luck any more. It didn't matter that much to Clary anyway, since, recently, a blizzard had made its way into Idris, and so she wouldn't've been allowed out until it passed. All the Downworlders that were kept outside for the majority of the year had to be brought in, and had made camp in the royal chamber; so on top of there being more people to watch her every move, it was stuffed inside the manor, and Clary preferred not to look at traitors other than Jace.

The nightmares had begun a week or so after the ban. Even if Jonathon thought that they were caused by her containment, the obvious remedy would be then to let her go outside, but he didn't. The freshest air that she'd receive nowadays would be if she stuck her head out of the window – and even then they didn't like that. They were too worried that she'd fall out; accidentally or on purpose, she didn't know.

She tried to avoid his eyes, but they were always seeking hers.

His finger turned her face to the side, so that her left cheek pressed into the pillow. It trailed over the side of her face, and though her arms were free and able to stop him, she didn't. "If I had not restrained you," he said, "you would've clawed through your own face." He looked at the red lines marring her pale, freckled skin; they ran from her eyes and spread out across her throat, painting her like an ancient warrior. He let go of her face. "Had I let you continue, you might've ended up looking like me."

Her eyes darted to the silver scars on his cheek that he still kept and wore proudly, though he didn't brag much about them anymore. She assumed that it was because everyone knew how he had received them by this late stage.

Jonathon cocked his head to the side, and grinned. It squashed the marred skin tightly, sorely contrasting against the smoother side of his face; but it didn't make him look any less charming. He was disarmingly so, when he wanted to be. He was what you thought of when you heard the word 'kingly'. And, to him, her staring so blatantly at them didn't seem like such a bad thing; in fact, his eyes seemed to be sizing her up and they darkened ever so slightly. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"This is new," he mused. "Let me guess: I cut out your tongue this time for disobedience? You know that that was only a _dream,_ darling." He thumbed the edge of her mouth. "If you want to be certain that it's still there, I could always check for you."

Finally, Clary moved to smack his hand away from her lips. "It wasn't a dream," she snapped.

"There we go, Clarissa," he said amusedly. "So what was it then? A premonition? A prophecy?"

"It was a _nightmare."_

"Of course it was," he said. Jonathon watched her carefully, but she didn't say anything else or even acknowledge him. "Do you want to talk about it – or am I not going to get any more words out of you this morning?"

He always liked to find out about them whenever he woke her up; she wondered if he was getting ideas from them to use effectively against her. She had refused to give away anything since the first time, but sometimes he could guess what they were about, if he listened to her cries long enough.

She stayed silent.

"Must've been a bad one this time," he probed, caressing her hair, "if you're still recovering from it. There was a lot of thrashing, eye-moving, sweating. And this prolonged silence." Jonathon leaned down towards her face. "Or maybe you're embarrassed by it. Was it about your oldest, most favourite brother? Was it a-"

He had asked the question before. She caught his hand before it had a chance to sneak up her dress and lay flat against her vagina, as he had the first time. She wondered whether it was the only reason he provided her with nightgowns, giving her a semblance of dignity that wasn't really preventing anything if he wanted it hard enough.

And he did. It disgusted her that she could feel it against her body, and he didn't even seem to care.

"No," she snarled. "It _wasn't_ a 'wet dream', and it _wasn't_ about you." A half lie, but he didn't need to know.

" _Liar,"_ he hissed. His eyes glittered like they had in her nightmare, like obsidian, and his teeth were bared in a malicious grin. "I heard my name fall from your lips."

She tried to wriggle out from underneath him, but he pulled her back underneath him with a murmur of "where do you think you're going", and caged her in with his forearms lying flat on the bed, either side of her head. He moulded his body so that it fit perfectly on top of hers and balanced himself there, putting extra pressure onto her hips with his own to immobilise her further. Clary immediately stopped wiggling and breathed in sharply at that movement. His morning wood was still prominent, and perhaps even worse than it had been earlier.

This had never happened before. He was either never in bed when she was, or sitting beside her, plotting and planning and watching her. His touches never surpassed calming her down after a nightmare or holding her on the brink of sleep promising that they wouldn't come tonight, as he had the first time. He'd get off her almost immediately after they had gathered that it was another nightmare.

Maybe he had just lulled her into a false sense of security, making her _want_ to stay next to him for his protection; maybe she had outlived her stay as a sister.

She wasn't escaping, but maybe she could distract him long enough for Jonathan to come and retrieve him for whatever needed seeing. He always did, eventually. "Why did you even ask if you already knew?"

"I like it when _you_ acknowledge the truth. So." He smirked. "You were dreaming about me."

"It was a _nightmare,"_ she repeated. "And it wasn't _just_ you - there were others."

He ignored what he didn't care about. "What was it, exactly, that I was doing that made you beg for me to stop, hm? What was this 'nightmare' about?"

Her face reddened. _Please, Jonathon. I haven't done anything._ Clary had hoped that she hadn't said that aloud, that when he said that he had heard her say his name, she had _only_ said his name; but he clearly knew the rest – unless it was just a good guess. She knew how he was taking the implication from the way that he looked at her, from the way that he shifted not-so-innocently above her again, rubbing his body against hers; and she wondered if he remembered that she hated him.

His next words were breathed hotly against her ear in a sultry purr: "And who else was there, watching?"

"Torture," she spat.

His smile was slow, but threatening. "My favourite." His fingers explored her throat idly, while she desperately pushed her head backwards into the mattress to put some space between their mouths. "Seems to me like you've got a guilty conscience, if I'm torturing you."

"I haven't done _anything,"_ she said, and Jonathon, anticipating her words, recited them alongside her. Her eyes closed dejectedly; it was obvious now that he had known what she had said to him in the nightmare and he wasn't just playing her.

He hummed. "I heard. Doesn't mean that I believe it, though. Until, however, I find evidence, I can't actually do anything against you." He suddenly gripped her throat; Clary's eyes widened from the shook, and her hands frantically tried to rip his off her. "I'm going to be watching you _very_ carefully, darling, and if I deem you to have put one _toe_ out of line…I think you know what's going to happen."

"Jonathon," Clary gasped. He seemed to have forgotten himself in the power of holding someone's life in his hands. Literally. " _Jonathon._ Please."

"Haven't I taught you that in these situations, you shouldn't waste your breath with such pathetic noises?" He released her suddenly with a look of disdain on his face. "Mind you, I do enjoy hearing you beg." His face twitched, before he slid off her and stood on the floor next to their bed and assessed her with his gaze. "Get up," he ordered. "I have a gift for you."

* * *

Jonathan put his hand on the door frame. It was cold. As was the rest of the dungeons, as if there weren't any walls shielding the inhabitants from the outside world.

He remembered a good many nights - and even days, when the sun was supposed to be out and warming the earth - freezing in this cell, back when he used to shiver. He didn't any more.

Oh yes, this was his cell, still vacant, as it had been ever since he had left it. Soon, it would be Clarissa's cell, and maybe she'd have an easier time inside than what he did. If not, then regular beatings on the hour, every day was what awaited her; insults and demands that were present only to drive her insane; sleep deprivation that was caused in ways that Jonathan could no longer remember; starvation and the withdrawal of water; and the inability to urinate or excrete somewhere other than her cell, which was likely not to be cleaned. Every single device dependent on her willingness to obey whatever was wanted of her.

His old cell was at the back of the basement, hidden in the shadows; contrary to the other cells that had been created in this dark, dank place, the prisons that were created to house the personal prisoners of the king were spaced far away from each other, so that they were unlikely to hear whatever it was that was going on in the others, and had been built with thick concrete walls. Nevertheless, it wasn't impossible to hear sounds from the others – just rare; especially since after your own personal visit from the king, you'd be passed out of the floor, and oblivious to the sufferings of everyone else. Sometimes Jonathon soundproofed the walls, sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he forced you to scream until you thought your lungs would burst, to make sure that the others could hear you from the confines of their own cages. Eventually, the pain that others were feeling, that you could hear, stopped mattering to you, and from then on, it'd just be Jonathon versus yourself. It was a quick battle, usually.

There were only four (technically three, since his old one was being saved) working cells for his personal prisoners; his favourites were given their own, individual cells so that they could not draw upon the strength of shared sacrifice or comradeship and went mad from the isolation, whilst the others were piled and stuffed into the smallest - the fifth cell - until one cracked and begged for mercy. That one would either be released into the court or murdered if found untrustworthy or cowardly by their trial; whatever happened to that one didn't matter, however - all their inmates had witnessed the treachery.

Most of the occupants of the cells were unknown to him, since the doors weren't transparent and there was a lack of windows – but he was glad. Jonathan didn't want to see Jonathon's playthings, even if he _was_ allowed. He knew that Isabelle had never been there, that she had always been under his care in the general prisons, and the care of his other guards. It made him feel conflicted for a moment, before he forgot about her entirely. Other than her, there was only one other prisoner that he had been allowed to have a small amount of contact with, who had been selected to be a personal prisoner of Jonathon's, for reasons unknown to him; though he had his own suspicions. He barely remembered his real name, only his prisoner identity; he had never been shown the exact cell that he was housed in, but was blindly led to it when Jonathon required him to pay a visit, usually for rune-drawing purposes.

Jonathan, however, knew, on some higher level than name-recognition and physical-remembrance (for he no longer resembled who he once was), that this was a friend of Jace's. What he _didn't_ know, was whether this prisoner understood his wrongs for not supporting Jonathon, or whether he even recalled his and Jace's shared bond from years past. He wondered whether the prisoner would ever speak when he was in the cell with him, instead of watching him with eyes that seemed to look at him in a different way every time that he was there or whether he was also just biding his time. He wondered whether that prisoner was even still there, or if he had been demoted after Clarissa's confession that she didn't know him – or even released entirely for good behaviour.

He let his hand slip away from the door frame, and he stepped inside after making sure the door wasn't going to shut him in. He looked at the things in the block that made the cell _his._ There were the white lines on the floor and in the far left-hand corner of the wall, at the bottom, from where he had dug his nails in the structure to distract himself from the pain that was being inflicted on him on other part of his body, from where he had clawed and clawed the floor to keep himself from being dragged out of his chamber, to be set up in another, smaller room, where all manners of torture mechanisms were housed. There was also a small tally to his right, further up the wall; he had started keeping a tally of the days that he thought were passing when he first arrived, to keep himself occupied when the first hours in silence, with the walls closing in, already proved to be maddening. When he had begun, he had thought that the expanse of the wall, from the height at which he stood to the floor, would've been large enough to keep track of the days; but when that space ran out, and Jonathon had laughed and criticised him for it one too many times, Jonathan had stopped hoping that there was going to be someone coming to breach the walls. He had estimated it to have been 270 days before he gave up; but even now he didn't know if he had been counting accurately.

He could've easily spent a day or two passed out from pain or lack of nutrition, or when he was finally allowed the privilege to sleep unhindered.

Other than the engravings, there wasn't much else that marked it as his. There were smudges of his blood that hadn't been washed out yet, an indescribable that still lingered, and the number of his cell, marked in emboldened numbering and lettering on the back of the door. _139145_. Did every prison have the same set up numbers? Jonathan didn't know, nor did he really care. Those were _his_ numbers, a testament to what _he_ went through; they shouldn't be compared to or shared with others who were perhaps stronger than him, who lasted longer, or those that were weaker. Those that cried or shivered or were still holding out hope for a rebel overthrow.

Suddenly the horrors were replaying in his head, to loud and too raw for Jonathan to cope. Obviously Isabelle had appeared beside him, as she did every time he was close to having a panic attack or suffering from some sort of trauma, and was once again critiquing him on his weakness and the failure to process what has actually happened to him. Jonathan backed out of the cell quickly, almost tripping over his own two feet, with a hand over his mouth, trying to mask his progression to hyperventilation. He slammed the door closed, then all but ran up the steps that led him out of the dungeons, and back into the brightly-lit, furnished manor, where there was a surplus of things that could continue to keep him occupied.

For all that he knew, he reassured himself, behind each of the doors there was nothing. He may have been the only personal prisoner that Jonathon had taken and kept.

* * *

He hadn't forgotten anything about that day; not the way she looked at him - a look that was equivalent to the ones that her 'brothers' gave him - as if he was the scum of the earth, when the _real_ scum of the earth was all around her; not the way she dressed, and the crown that sat upon her fiery locks; the way she let _Jonathon Morgenstern_ touch her and manipulate her, and the way that she played his games without a second thought. Oh, he wouldn't let himself forget; so long as he was being kept in this cell, he would not forget one little detail.

_Especially_ not the way that she fitted her name, her title: Clarissa Morgenstern, Princess of Idris. Not the fact that she was so far gone into her new identity that she didn't even recognise him.

He ran his fingers through his short hair, the only part of his old self that could grow back the way it used to be, and cradled his head in between his knees. Whispering to himself, and to the angels that hadn't been torn out of Heaven, who could still hear him, he recounted that day's events, promising to himself over and over again that he wasn't going to let King Jonathon make him forget it. He whispered to himself about the day he tried to kill the king's heir, the one with the identical namesake, the name that he, Prisoner 1B-197, wouldn't ever speak aloud; he reminded himself about why he had done it, and why he would do it again.

He listed each reason why he would kill every single one of the Morgensterns without a single thought in chronological order, as he remembered it, and then did it again, matching each sin to the face of one of the siblings. When he finished, he heard the first screams of the day begin; they were muffled by the thick walls, but he was closest to the general prisons, and their walls were thin, and whatever sounds were made within them echoed across the whole basement. He didn't know whether they could be heard in the other Personal Prisoner cells, but _he_ heard the screams and moans, and he wouldn't forget them.

He hadn't been attended to by Jonathon personally in many months, but he waited for his return. He doubted that he had lost interest in him, even _if_ Princess Clarissa had said that she didn't know who he was; if it were the case, he would've been demoted from being the personal prisoner of the king.

Were there even other personal prisoners of the king? He didn't know. He had never seen one or heard their screams, but that didn't mean that they weren't necessarily there. Anyone that he once knew could be right next to him, and he wouldn't know. They could be right outside now, being dragged along the floor, kicking and screaming, or being reluctantly but quietly led, to the Torture Chamber and he wouldn't know or be able to help them.

Nevertheless, there were a few that he knew couldn't be there: Isabelle, his father, his Parabatai or Jace's girlfriend. They were long gone.

* * *

 

A few hours later, and Jonathon still had yet to locate the exact whereabouts of her gift. Yet, he wasn't embarrassed; in fact, he had gotten gradually happier the longer he searched for it, whilst Clary grew increasingly bored and curious of his office, which she had only been privy to a few times.

She gazed around, her eye catching particularly bizarre objects that he had put out on display on his cabinets and desk. She stood up to wander; Jonathon barely gave her a second glance, continuing to scour and sort through his bureau's contents.

There was a cabinet with several piles of documents stacked upon them, all signed in various places by Jonathon's signature amongst others. It was all meticulously tidy, with every page purposely aligned and straightened to the corners of the desk. She had watched him arrange them in these piles from the chair at his bureau with careful, precise movements of his fingers. Everything else on the desk had been moved to make room for the stacks of files.

On another cabinet, there were drawers and cupboard doors, some of which were locked and others that weren't. Clary fingered one of the locks, smoothing her thumb over the engravings. They were strange; only a collection of letters and shapes that didn't seem to make any sense - but they gave off a demonic energy, churning her stomach. She wondered what was being kept locked behind them; she wondered if he remembered.

Clary knelt down to inspect an unlocked, ajar door on the cabinet, but she found nothing inside it.

"Little Sister," he called, still looking down at his document. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Inspecting," Clary said simply. "I'm bored, and you're busy finding that gift of yours."

"I could stop being busy, but only for certain things."

As she closed the door and prepared to rise from her squat, she caught sight of a hidden compartment above the door. Looking towards her brother suspiciously, she carefully tugged it open. Inside laid one dagger, which was the exact length and width of the compartment. It was impeccably clean, as if it had never been used, and the edges were sharp-looking, as if her brother spent his free-time sharpening the steel. Its hilt was brown and extraordinarily dull compared to some of the intricate designs on his other weapons.

But it was slim enough to hide in her sleeve, and the sheer length of it meant that it could easily pierce straight through his heart. If he had one.

Clary moved closer to the desk, sidling in front of the compartment to block it from view. Her hand inched towards her lifeline, nervous about whether having her alone, in his office with him, was going to cause whatever he had started that morning in his bedroom to progress. She needed a form of defence, not necessarily a weapon to attack; she didn't want to kill him without reason, since he was the one keeping her safe, but the incident this morning made her remember that _he_ wasn't safe to be around.

She twisted her lips. "The answer is still _no,_ Brother," she said sourly.

"You wouldn't give your brother a gift, when his birthday is so near?" He said. Jonathon still wasn't looking at her, but continued to search through the contents of his drawer with slowly and carefully. "How cruel, Clarissa; this one isn't even _for_ Christmas – not that _I_ celebrate it – and I am lovingly giving it to you."

"Want something _else,"_ she hissed, "and I might give it to you." She moved closer to the desk, sidling in front of the compartment to block it from view. Her hand inched towards her lifeline.

He hummed, considering, and then: "I wouldn't touch that dagger, darling," he sang, choosing not to answer with another demand. His eyes quickly flicked up to watch her freeze, and he smirked.

Clary's fingers stopped reaching for the blade at his hint of advice. They hovered just before the hilt, twitching with the curiosity of seeing what it was. If she was able to grab it without her brother noticing, as he had, she could've rammed it into his throat.

She looked at him with a pleasant intrigue, in disguise of innocence. "And why ever not?"

"It's poisoned - or, more rather, it's cursed," he said nonchalantly, looking back down to the papers in his hand.

Clary snatched her hand away. "Cursed?"

"I couldn't have a guest finding my hidden weapons and trying to kill me unawares," he said simply. "I had a warlock do it for me. Only two people can touch it without injury, but only one remains alive." He began to tuck all his files back into his drawer. "I'll give you three guesses who."

" _You,"_ she said dryly, slamming the compartment closed and walking away from it.

"My, aren't you deliciously astute," he purred, gently closing the drawer. "Not heavenly, though. Wanting to kill your own brother as he finds your present, with his own weapon?" Jonathon tutted patronisingly. "Not very nice indeed, Clarissa."

"And what, exactly, is this so-called present of yours?" She snapped. "I'm _not_ having sex-"

He shushed her gently and waved his hand. "Keep your virginity, sweet sister, for as long as you find necessary. Give it to Jonathan so that I can't have it, for all I care – he's always come first. That only means that I'm good at waiting to be rewarded – and I _have_ finally taken my rather delectable justice from Jace, haven't I?" He grinned, looking up at her for approval. He found none, but it didn't do anything to ruin his mood. "Your present, dear princess, is a drawing – if I ever manage to find it. I know you've been curious as to whether I ever experimented with this little gift from Mother." He waggled his fingers at her from across the room; so delicate, so artistic, so much like hers and Jocelyn's. It made her chest hurt.

"I don't think that," she muttered.

"What? So you've been staring at my hands, thinking about something _else,_ these past few months?

She blushed. _He wished._

"Hm. Perhaps you _are_ going mad from the lack of being able to go outside," he said.

" _You're_ driving me mad," she retorted. " _You,_ and no one else."

He grinned. " _That's the plan_."

Clary didn't think that he was joking. Breaking her mind through madness would be a fine way of getting what he wanted out of her. It must've been why Jonathan was so fragile.

He rummaged through the next drawer, moving away from behind his desk to a cabinet that stood across where Clary was. With a victorious flourish, he pulled something from inside a compartment, and turned to her with it, rolled up in his hands, with too innocent a smile, too beautiful. Jonathon strutted over to her and laid it into her waiting hands. Slowly, she unrolled it, all the while occasionally glancing back at him, who was watching over her shoulder, with the same gleaming black eyes.

When she saw the rough lines of his pen, and the hard strokes of shading – though, granted, there wasn't much – she choked on a gasp.

She shook her head frantically, wanting to look away from the horrors that had been created on the page, how her brother had managed to turn something so white and blank and innocent and turn it into his demonic fantasy. Because that's what it had to be. It couldn't be real – what she was looking at _couldn't_ be real. "No." She sounded as if someone was cutting off her oxygen supply, as if she was being strangled. "What is this? This is not a fucking gift!"

"I admit the depiction of Jace was something of a joke," he said, smoothing his hand over the artwork that was bared in front of him. "But…the _others._ Is it not a gift to you to know that they're not dead, that I've… _seen_ them recently? That if only you dared, you could see them again too."

"No," she moaned. "No. You can't have. They're not…They're not… _No."_

He guided her finger to each person individually, tracing the details and pointing out the little bits that most likely did make it real. Or maybe he just knew his dungeons that well. "When was the last time I saw our mother properly, to you, darling? Do you think that over all these years I'd remember the red of her hair, so different to yours? Or the freckles fanning across her face? Oh, and this certainly is new." He ran his nail across a scar that he had sketched on her face. She looked to him in disgust, but he clarified: "it was self-inflicted, darling, I promise you. If it were me, it'd be worse than that."

She wasn't sure whether she believed him or not, but she suddenly wanted to stop looking at it, and shoved the paper into his chest. Her hand slid into her hair and gripped it, tugging hard, wanting to see if she'd wake from this nightmare that was much, much worse than before, and too realistic for her to process. "How could you? She's your _mother!"_

His lip curled. "Biologically, yes, like you're my sister," he said. "But she's not the same mother that you had. She didn't _want_ to kill you at birth – and now here she is. We don't exactly have that mother-son bond." Jonathon offered the poster back to her. "If you can find the cells that contain any of them, I'm sure they'd enjoy a visitor – but, like I said, only if you are brave enough to face them."

"Why do you always do this to me?" She sobbed, sliding into the chair at his desk.

"Shouldn't you know who you're fighting for?" He said, still holding out the drawing to her. "I know my comrades very well, but I fear you haven't seen yours in a while. You may have forgotten who the real family is." He sighed as she cried harder, burying her face in her arms, leaning over his desk, and placed the paper next to her head. As he walked out of the room, to leave her, not knowing what to do with his crying sister, wanting to check up on something, and wanting to give her that same semblance of privacy, he told her that he'd see her again tonight, if she was returning.


	19. Indentities

A week later, after Jonathon's birthday celebration (which wasn't anything particularly special, only consisting of a tense dinner with his siblings, the gift of decapitation of three rebels that Jonathan had caught that morning and Clary's allowance of a few more kisses than usual.) (Still, it bothered her that _she_ hadn't even so much as received a "happy birthday" from either of her brothers. Jonathon may not have known, but Jonathan should've remembered.), Clary woke up to discover that he was gone. Vanished in the middle of the night without a trace.

Of course, she panicked like the little sister that she was, and fled the room after searching for him within. Armed with a dagger that she knew he hid in his room (that, luckily, wasn't cursed) and dressed in her hunting gear, she snuck downstairs to where she knew Jonathan to live and knocked on his door. He didn't answer at first, but after a few minutes, with Clary knocking against the door hard enough to disturb those in nearby rooms, he opened it.

The breath went out of her. There he was, Jonathan, in Jace's body, almost exactly how she remembered him. There he stood, shirtless and beautiful, scarred and covered in runes – some, of which, made her stomach churn. She didn't think that he could look at them for long either, but was curious as to what he felt internally when they were applied to his angelic body. What did they even mean? Were the runes consensual? She wished that she could ask him. The only way that she could ever hope to describe his skin was golden, and was even more toned, if it were possible, than when she knew him as Jace. (He really _was_ becoming their brother's war machine.) Though, yes, like they all were, he was a little broken; yet, not as bad as he once was, with the hallucinations of Isabelle Lightwood that seemed to plague him at every turn, which her rune, drawn on him by Jonathon, had seemed to have fixed without any side-effects. Yet, she noticed as she raked her eyes over him, she couldn't _see_ her rune on his body; perhaps it was just somewhere that she couldn't see – like his back.

Nevertheless, he was drenched in sweat, the rivulets of the water glistening on his golden skin, running along the scarred tissue of his torso or the planes of built up muscle on that lithe body of his, and from her own experiences of it, she knew that he had woken from a nightmare. Clary only really wondered whether he had the same ones as her, starring Jonathon Morgenstern, or whether he was too wrapped up in his fantasy, even unconsciously, that it could never be about his beloved brother. He looked so tired, her poor, tortured brother, and regarded her with an expression close to confusion, but also embarrassment. Slowly, he let his eyes trail over her from head to toe, his gaze lingering on the dagger clutched in her hand.

"Clarissa," he said, leaning against the door frame. Even in his half-lucid state, he wouldn't call her Clary; she even wondered whether he had been conditioned into calling her that and nothing else. Did nicknames exist anymore? Or was the fullness of her and Jace's name another way to ruin their identity, to control them? "What are you doing here?"

"Jonathon disappeared," she whispered. "He's not in his room. I…" It was her turn to take him in again, eyes sweeping over him quickly, taking in his posture and body language, like she had studied with Jonathon in his training sessions. He was so calm in the face of her panic, and with him at the head of the king's army, if there was something wrong, wouldn't he be shoving her out of his way by now? Wouldn't he be more clothed and armed and furious? "You don't think that rebels could have snuck in and kidnapped him, do you?"

He smirked half-heartedly. "Do you really think that any rebels are stupid enough to try breach this place in the middle of a snow storm? Do you think that they'd even get past the Downworlders at the entrance or the other guards surrounding this place? If a kidnapping of Jonathon really _did_ happen, do you truly believe they'd just leave _you_ behind?" He asked; his eyebrow was raised as he regarded her patronisingly. "You can't really believe that Jonathon would just let them _take_ him. Isn't it more likely that there'd be a pile of bodies in his room, slaughtered, before they could get anywhere – with you _or_ him?"

"No. Fine. _Yes,_ " she conceded. "So where is he? You must know, he must've told you. You always know."

"My," he said, "don't _you_ seem rather frantic about the disappearance of someone you were plotting to kill only weeks ago."

Her teeth ground together. "If you're trying to imply something-"

He grinned, very feline. "I imply nothing." That was true, at least. Jonathon was the one who implied things and watched you struggle; Jonathan was the one who said whatever he wanted outright. "You're stupid, but I don't think you're stupid enough to come here after disposing of Jonathon – and I sure as hell doubt that you would've been able to do it _yourself_." He shook his head, his lengthy locks flying about his head. "In any case, I don't understand what the problem is. Isn't he allowed to wander his own home whenever he wants? Maybe he just wants to wander."

" _Jonathan_."

He sighed, the grin slipping from his face. "He's the king; he does what he likes, and sometimes it's without my knowledge. Surely you don't think I know where he is all the time."

"Isn't that your job?"

He snorted. "My job is to _stalk_ Jonathon? Even he wants privacy sometimes." Jonathan looked as if he was going to invite her inside for a moment, imperceptibly taking a step backwards and shifting his body away from the door frame for an opening, but he quickly thought better of it and reverted to how he had been. He didn't want her to come in, clearly, but she couldn't quite work out why. "I'm just his brother, Clarissa. My job is to lead the army, and to protect Jonathon, when he wants me. Believe it or not, he's _very_ capable at holding his own."

"So you have no idea where he's gone – he's… _M.I.A –_ and you're not worried?"

He cocked his head to the side, eyebrows furrowed and a frown evident upon his face. "I never said that I didn't know where he was."

"Yes you did."

"No I didn't," he pointed out. "I just said that I didn't _always_ know where he was. Slight difference."

"Why didn't you just tell me earlier? I could've left you a lot sooner."

He seemed to consider this for a moment. "Perhaps I want to talk to you," he said.

"Why do you want to talk to me all of a sudden?"

"Perhaps Jonathon told me to before he left. Perhaps I want to purely because we're siblings. Perhaps, now Jonathon's gone – for a little while, at least – things can be different." His eyes glinted, and he was so much like Jace in that moment that Clary was keen to believe his latter suggestion. But she knew better; this palace had erased all forms of naivety. "Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps."

She tapped her foot and bit her lip, something that she no longer did much. "So where _is_ he? Or are you never going to tell me?"

"He's in France on kingly business," he said. "If you believe it."

It was clear that Jonathan did not, and she was of a similar position. It was too coincidental that he had given her that gruesome depiction of his personal prisoners for her to keep (and find only a week before, almost forcing himself on her the same day, and then disappearing. Granted, she didn't know what was so coincidental about it, but there was that underlying feeling. Perhaps it was a test for her and Jonathan, to see how they acted when he wasn't there, when it was _their_ kingdom for as long as he was gone for. Maybe he wanted to see if she would let all the prisoners out from the dungeons – or only her family, who were occupying his personal prisons – and maybe he wanted to see what Jonathan would do to her if she was discovered to be doing it, or if she was even successful; maybe he wanted to see if they would act out again and try to kill each other when they were no longer under his watchful eye; maybe there was something suspicious and rebellious about Jonathan that she had yet to discover.

"He portaled out?"

She had tried to create a portal to escape months ago after stealing Jonathan's stele, but all that happened was a burning sensation in her hand. No portal. She couldn't have drawn it wrong, she was sure; despite the fact that it had been _months_ since she had last held a stele, _she_ was the one to have created the rune-portal anyway. Portalling was the safest thing to assume that he had done, considering that neither of her brothers had yet to take flight on their wyverns, and since the snow storm outside was still raging on, which would make any journey dangerous – even _if_ it was only to the other side of Idris. It hadn't quite crossed her mind that he could have easily used one of his warlocks to create a portal for him, instead of using a rune.

Jonathan looked at her curiously. "Yes," he said tentatively. "This morning. How else do you expect him to get there on time for his appointment?"

"With one of his warlocks, right?" Clary wasn't quite sure why she was asking, but she imagined that whatever the answer was, it'd be useful to use at a later date.

He raised an eyebrow. Perfect. Golden. _Jace._ "Didn't you create a rune so that we wouldn't _need_ warlocks to open portals?"

"He doesn't know how to draw the rune. He's never…He hasn't – did you teach him how to draw the rune?"

"He asked," was all he said.

"So he created his own portal out of Idris?" She confirmed. " _But_ -"

"Don't hurt yourself thinking about it. He's the _only one_ who can portal in and out. Everyone else can only portal into Idris – and then they're trapped. Even the warlocks."

"Bastard," she whispered before she could catch herself.

 _That_ was why all the rebels could only send select people into Idris, leaving behind a team of others outside their country to gather more forces and then send _them_ in. That was why she couldn't escape, why no one could escape, even if they weren't in Jonathon's clutches just yet – they were in the land, and they could only leave through climbing the mountains into Germany and Switzerland, and the area around those routes were mostly guarded by his army and now the wyverns; if he so wished, he could bring every single one of the rebels into his holding and just wait for more to come scurrying in on a hopeless crusade. It was a warlock who had probably created the spell for him, though she didn't know that there was a spell that existed to do that; perhaps it had something to do with the old wards around Idris that meant you had to have permission to portal in. In any case, she assumed that the warlock who had done it for him was dead now, just as the one who had cursed his dagger for him was; all she needed to do was to find a warlock that was willing to try to undo whatever curse was on Idris.

She missed Magnus Bane. And pondered about Catarina Loss and Tessa Gray. She wondered if it could have been any one of them who had done it – and decided to hope that it wasn't. She hoped that none of them were there, in Idris either; she hadn't seen any of them in Jonathon's drawing of the dungeons, so she was wishing on a miracle. Clary seemed to be always wishing on a miracle lately.

Her stomach sank as she realised what she had said, looking at her brother's narrowing eyes, but, luckily, Jonathan had not heard; though, he did grow cautious and strained from the apparent secret. "What?" He demanded. "What did you just say? I couldn't hear you."

"Nothing," she said quickly.

He looked at her suspiciously, but dropped it (as much as Jonathan _could_ drop it; he was probably going to report back to Jonathon with every little thing that she did). "If all goes well, he'll be back within the next month," he told her. "In the meantime, I'm in charge of your training – and your everyday activities, to an extent."

"I suppose it was too much to ask for me _not_ to be assigned a new overlord." She huffed. "I don't know what you and Jonathon expect me to _do."_

His lips quirked, but she didn't think that it was a smile. She didn't think it was anything close. He stood straight, unsupported by the wall now. "I expect you to go back to your room – _your_ room – and sleep for the next four hours until I come and retrieve you. I expect that you won't turn these late-night-wanderings into habits or regularly visit my room."

"I was worried," she said defensively.

" _Good._ Keep up the pretence. Be careful though: I'm so close to being able to tell that your worry is only self-directed. I prefer the thought that you're not actually a selfish Clave member."

And with that, he shut the door in her face.

* * *

Clary, in fact, _did_ make it a habit.

Without Jonathon around to keep his eye on them at all times, Jonathan became…different. He wasn't exactly setting prisoners free and letting Clary go on a demon massacre, but, contrary to his underlying threats in almost everything he said to her, he didn't follow them through. He stopped when she was too tired to continue in training and gave her regular breaks; contrary to what Jonathon had used as a threat against her – using _real_ weapons – when she and Jonathan used them, there was nothing scary about it. For once, she was on a close level to her instructor, and was able to keep up with him as easily as she ever had. He didn't force her to wear her crown or dress in her finery (most likely because he didn't himself), but she liked to, having become so accommodated to it over the months, and she liked to hear what Jonathan had to say about Cain and Abaddon, and when he reassured her that Ruman should be able to pull through the winter, if she had helped him as much as she claimed.

She had moved back into her bedroom that night, it being closer to Jonathan's and having no more real protection than if she was on her own, for as long as Jonathon was gone. Sometimes he found her in Jonathon's dining room, already eating breakfast, after realising that she wasn't in her bedroom and awaiting him, and merely sat down opposite her to begin his own breakfast. She didn't wander the manor, and never would, whether Jonathon was there or not – but almost every night she'd follow Jonathan back to his room, or later walk down there herself during the night, like she had done the first time.

And just like the first time, he never invited her in. Yet, he was less than hostile towards her, and always answered the door when she knocked, if he was awake. She was beginning to think that he really _did_ want to talk to her, like he had implied; that things could be different in their little world, for a little while. Though, a small part of her assumed and reminded her that it was because of the list of rules that Jonathon had given him before he left. She imagined that one of the things that he couldn't do was brutally punish her without his authority, and that he had to humour her, be her friend – make sure that she wasn't left to her own devices, with only one of them there to watch over her.

Not for the first time since she arrived here, Clary wondered who Jonathan – or maybe he was still Jace – was playing. Did she believe him about where Jonathon was? Yes; but she had no proof to say otherwise. Everyone in the household seemed to not find his disappearance curious. Did she worry about her life at the manor without Jonathon? Yes - and she worried about Jonathon, wherever he was, too. She worried about everything; everything was suddenly too sweet.

Jace was dead. The dead did _not_ come back. Whoever this was, it was not Jonathan, but it also wasn't Jace. Was he worse, was he better? She didn't know.

Nevertheless, whoever he was and whatever he was doing, he didn't trust Clary any more than usual. Despite her arguments that she should at least stay behind in the household, as the temporary acting sovereign, whilst the he continued to go out twice a day to scout their territory for a few hours, Jonathan refused. _He_ was the acting sovereign, as far as he was concerned.

 _"Why_ _are_ you _in charge?" She had asked him suspiciously when he had told her the first time. "I'm the one who's next in line. I should be in charge when the king is gone. I'm the_ Crown _Princess."_

_His nose had scrunched up. "No. Male descendants come before the women – and I'm older than you."_

_"I'm his_ blood _."_

_"Family doesn't end in blood," he told her._

He didn't trust her to be able to scout the territory and return safely, or to stay in the manor without causing a disruption – and, besides, he'd tell her with a charming smile, he wanted to talk to his sister.

Jonathan took her outside with him and his war band – three werewolves, a warlock (not for fighting, she had been told, but for protection and healing), three Shadowhunters (two of which weren't under her command) and two faeries - at the break of dawn every morning, occasionally in the afternoon, and as it began to darken (when two vampires would join their group), swaddled in fur coats, and scoured the perimeter of their land, which had increased since she had to run it months ago. They were large and it was slightly cumbersome moving in such a large scouting group, Jonathan had told her, but it usually meant that there were no ambushes and they could cover a large area quickly with their added traits. Clary, though immobile and cold as she was in her fur swaddling, was not allowed to ride her own horse; instead, for the first few outings, Jonathan had sat her in front of him in his saddle and began the day's work without a complaint of how bothersome it was (though she thought it was partially because he enjoyed the shared heat, seeing as she was the only one that was made to wear layers). Later (a few _days_ later _)_ , after lying to his comrades that she had _finally_ learnt how to ride a horse, he had given her a random one from the stables and tied it to his own horse ( _Santana_ , she had learnt) so that she couldn't gallop away.

Not that she knew how to ride their horses anyway.

They hardly ever came across rebels – and when they did, Jonathan's course of action was to give whoever it was to his comrades to fight over. It was never much of a fight, however, and Clary never felt threatened or scared by the ferocity of their arguing. Mostly because it never came to ferocity. The Shadowhunters and warlock were impassive to whoever was up for grabs, as she and Jonathan were, so it was left to the werewolves and faeries (plus the vampires, if they were discovered during their nightly hunts) to decide who the rebels belonged to. They spoke about it to each other carefully, and with the ruling of Jonathan and the others if they decided that the other party was being tricked – which was almost always because of the faeries; usually, depending on the number that were discovered, they were disturbed evenly and fairly – and, sometimes, only one of the parties wanted a rebel.

They always took prisoners. They never slaughtered.

The first night that they found rebels (Loyalists, she had been told; identifiable by the Clave symbol that she had helped to create, worn on their hunting gear and sometimes marked on their hands.), Clary had regretfully discovered what they did to them. There were four of them: three men and a female that she had thought to be an elf. The men were evenly distributed to each Downworlder family, which they greedily took after assessing who was better suited to who, and wasted no time in putting them on chains that also connected them to Jonathan's horse. The – confirmed – elf was also clasped in irons, much to the displeasure of Clary, but their faerie companions seemed to think it was nothing more than justice, and gladly handed her over to the werewolves and vampires to share. The only condolence was that the iron didn't seem to affect the elf any further than burning her wrists. She dreaded to think what was going to happen to her once she was in the hands of the werewolf and vampire clans.

Occasionally throughout the rest of the night, Clary heard them explaining the rules of their Downworlder families, to the disgust of the Loyalists, and she thought that she must've been the last one on that journey to realise that each of the prisoners were going to be Turned once they arrived back at camp. Yet, the elf was already a faerie and there was still no inclination about what would happen to her – but she was too afraid to ask; besides, the elf already seemed to know what awaited her, keeping her head low and trying not to jangle the chains on her wrists any more than they were. Seeing it only made her further wonder what happened to those that were already Downworlders.

She would've appealed to Jonathan to change his mind about how he handled captured rebels, but she knew that he'd merely harden his mouth and say, "What would you have me do with them, Princess?" She, of course, had no idea what she wanted to happen to them instead; in the greying world, she wasn't sure whether being Turned and then enduring whatever happened to them thereafter was worse than death (as her father, Valentine, would've been inclined to think) or immediate torture.

And anyway, Jonathan usually ignored her on their rounds. She knew he'd rather she be silent in case she gave off an early warning to those lurking nearby when she chatted with those in their company, but he didn't seem to understand that that was exactly _why_ she did it. His comrades, however, were more prone to speaking to her when she asked a question than he was, acquiescing to her conversation purely because she was a princess, and princesses weren't ignored. Therefore she became increasingly chattier once she had learned their names, which had taken a while considering there were ten people there that she had never met before. Nevertheless, she was glad to have people other than Jonathon and Jonathan to speak to, for once; until now, she had been heavily secluded.

_So," Clary asked them one morning outing that so far seemed fruitless, "other than kidnapping, what else do you do?"_

_"We're not kidnapping," Ishmael, who was the smallest of the werewolves, said. "Kidnapping involves a ransom. We have no authority to ransom without the approval of King Jonathon, My Lady."_

_Until these outings, she had never been referred to as "My Lady" – and she hated it._

_"Kidnapping involves being held unlawfully and taken without consent," she said indignantly. "I was kidnapped."_

_Jonathan snorted. "You were_ not _kidnapped, Princess," he said. "You came here of your own free will. And they're right – kidnapping_ does _involve a ransom – so Jace wasn't kidnapped either."_

_"We obtain prisoners, Your Highness," Ishmael said. "For the good of Idris. For your brother, His Majesty."_

_Clary rolled her eyes._

_One of the only women in their group, a dark blue-skinned faerie named Celeste, said, "Does Her Royal Highness feel that she is being held as a prisoner by King Jonathon? Would My Lady rather not be here?"_

_Jonathan laughed, trying to turn the conversation. "The princess complains needlessly, as any child," he said. It was the most she had ever heard him speak on these outings. "She doesn't know what it's like to be a prisoner, and is too angelic for her own good. She'd rather set the prisoners free with a slap on the wrist and promises to stop."_

_Her face was aflame from the implications that she was a child, especially in front of these soldiers. "I just don't understand why they need to be Turned," she said stiffly. "And I wouldn't feel like such a prisoner if my brothers included me in their plans for the kingdom."_

_"Of course you're not being involved in their plans, My Lady," Celeste said. "You're just a little Angel girl." The others seemed to agree with her statement._

_"Little Angel_ princess _," a werewolf corrected. He was called Sylvester, as far as Clary had learned, but preferred to go by the name Silver. She thought it was because it was ironic; his coat was black. "And you've only recently arrived here, My Lady."_

_"And as for them being Turned, My Lady: we have to replenish our clans somehow, with fully grown adults," Ishmael said. "They're the ones who killed them, so they have to fill in."_

So, Clary continued to not say anything out of fear of what might happen to her if she spoke out against their handling. She didn't think that Jonathan would be allowed to pass her over to a Downworlder family to Turn, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't get punished in her own, royal way. She didn't think that any of his soldiers would stand in his way to protect her either, if he decided to punish her however he wanted. She was only a Little Angel Princess, whereas her brothers were running the country.

Because Jonathon couldn't have left without giving any instructions on how to handle her if she disobeyed. She couldn't believe that he wouldn't.

* * *

"We've been through this," he said, rubbing his temples with two fingers.

"Go through it again," she demanded. "We're not going to agree to this without being totally prepared."

Smoke wafted into their booth from a few tables over, where a group of Mundanes enjoyed their simple, uncorrupted lives. It was a dingy place – dimly light, cramped, with worn leather seats and always smelling of smoke, whether someone was actively smoking or not – but the new 'King Jonathon' had begun to send a few mercenaries out into the streets, and back alleys like this were becoming safer. It was thought that any Shadowhunter not living within his Idris walls was working against him.

It wasn't really that far-fetched at all.

"How much _more_ do you need to be prepared? I can't waste all my time on you lot," he said. "You're going in good hands; they'll prepare you once you're there."

"Warlock," she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice, "go through it. Again."

"I'm the _High_ Warlock, thank you very much," he retorted with a sniff.

"Right," one of her Shadowhunters said. "Didn't recognise you without all the glitter."

He looked around distastefully at the others crowding in the booth; there must've been six Shadowhunters with him in total – one or two of which may have been werewolves. In the poor lighting, it was hard to tell – and he didn't really care anyway, as long as he hadn't enticed the wrong group into joining the war effort. The leader of the gang was a woman with half a head of blonde hair, who didn't want to reveal her true name. She did most of the speaking and was as sharp as anything he had dealt with before; he half expected her to be a real sociopath.

He didn't like any of them one bit, but he hated the King more. They all did.

"I'll give you the brief version. In three days' time, your gang meets back here and I'll open a portal to allow you into Idris. On the other side there'll be a group that make sure you arrive safely. Once you're there, you're unable to leave through a portal – I don't know why, but you can't."

"And you're not joining us," one of the possible werewolves and her second in command – a man named David – said.

"That's right."

"And neither are your…Immortal friends," David said, nodding towards them.

They were seated at the other side of the room, in a booth similar to the one he was currently sitting in, and, also similarly to him, they were conducting their own briefings with other Shadowhunters and Downworlders that they had found on the streets. He knew – they _all_ knew – that each other would much rather be taking the journey with those that they sent into Idris, so that it'd seem less like they were sending them uncaringly to their deaths without their support, and more like they were doing something major to take down the new royalty.

Yet, they couldn't. There was so much that they had to be doing away from Idris – like sending more Shadowhunters and Downworlders into the Devil's hands.

That had happened too often; there were more people - that had been sent by them - in Jonathon's dungeons than there were still actively fighting. All their friends and their family that had stepped through _his_ portal – all who were now dead or imprisoned or –

He didn't like to think about those who had been converted to his cause. It felt like their fault for providing Jonathon with them.

"Yes. They're very much needed here to continue with recruitment," he said.

Their leader stood abruptly from her seat and ushered the others to get up. "Bane," she said, "you best be leaving here soon. Our sentinel outside just spotted a pair of demons heading down the street."

Her Shadowhunters started filing out from the back of the coffeehouse in an orderly fashion. The immortals on the other side noticed, and began to draw their conversations to a close, standing up from their own booths.

He caught her hand just before she followed her soldiers out. "You'll be here in three days?"

She nodded sharply. "Prisons first," she agreed, recalling a previous part of their discussion. "Then the aristocracy." She pulled away and started running after her soldiers.

"Not the siblings," he called after her.

He heard her laugh and voice as she disappeared through the door. "Don't worry, Bane. We'll get your boyfriend."

Once his friends were done, they followed Bane out the same way the other Shadowhunters had gone, and escaped through his portal before they caught sight of Jonathon's lookouts.

* * *

One day, the day it finally stopped snowing and it had been two weeks without Jonathon, she found Jonathan in her room, uninvited, gazing at the drawing of the personal prisons. Until he was there, until he was _looking_ at it, his jaw visibly clenching and unclenching as his hands quivered, Clary had never thought about asking him where they were located. He must've known, after all: he had been kept in there for the Angel knows how long.

 _And…And, maybe,_ she thought, swallowing thickly and tentatively stepping towards his imposing figure, _maybe he knows if they're still in there. Maybe he's…visited them._ The thought made her feel sick, but hopeful. A cruel combination. However, before she even managed to press her hand to his shoulder, a form of comforting contact that they had never had, he had twisted around to grab her wrist and slam into the desk under the image, in front of him. The question she was going to ask him died on her lips.

His hands were still trembling, keeping a shaky grasp on her dress, but he was snarling and his eyes were burning like heavenly fire. "What is this?" He demanded. Jonathan knew it to be Jonathon's handiwork - recognised it as his demonic drawings, knew that this wasn't the type of thing that Clarissa would be illustrating added to the knowledge that she had never been to that section of the basement – but he was all-consumed in fear, in flashbacks to when he looked as he did in that sketch.

He shook her, causing a gasp to escape her lips. "Jonathon," she said. "It's from Jonathon. It's not mine."

"You didn't draw it," he said, "but it _is_ yours. That's why it's in _your_ room."

Originally, Clary didn't even want to keep that image after Jonathon had left it, and left her, on the desk in his office. She had become too cowardly to want to force herself to look at it, to see what was happening to her family and friends as she lived the life of comfort (well, it was more comfortable than what they were enduring down in the prisons) with her two brothers. By looking at it, she feared that she would become consumed by Jonathon's lies, that this was something that would distract her as he moved on to doing something else, something more evil.

And it had to be a lie. It _had_ to be. Because that couldn't be her mother, or Luke – and of course Jace, because Jace (or some version of him) was right in front of her, pinning her to a desk in her room – or whoever that prisoner was that she faced mere months ago. That prisoner – 1B something - that she prayed was _not_ Alec. She didn't want Jonathon to have his hands on another Lightwood ever again. She didn't want their name – a good, Shadowhunter name – to go extinct on her brother's account, while Morgenstern – a name that was now tainted with the horrors that they have now caused, starting possibly with Valentine – lived on. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

Herondale was already gone. Herondale had slipped straight through Jace's fingers. But not Lightwood.

Yet, she was loath to leave it there for Jonathon to notice when he returned, was loath to let him see that she really was as cowardly as he thought she was. So she had snatched it from the desk when she finally decided to leave, letting it scrunch up in her hand and become creased, and delivered it to her room, where she was sure that she would never see it again. She hadn't looked at it – hadn't even _wanted_ to look at it – since.

Not even when Jonathon came to bed one night, sleeves darkened by blood, some of which was under his nails and flaking on his face, throwing her a smug look. "Lycanthropes," he'd muttered, disappearing into the bathroom. "Thank the Angel that bastard didn't get its filthy fangs anywhere near me." She had immediately thought that he was talking about Luke, but was only reminded that he had hundreds of lycanthropes at his disposal, and probably at least ten in his prisons. She was reminded of the rebels captured on scouts that were handed over to the werewolves to be theirs indefinitely.

Luke wasn't the only one in Idris.

"But that's not what I _asked_." He jostled her again. "What is this? Do you know?"

"Prisoners," she said. "Prisoners of the king, of Jonathon." She swallowed again. "Prisoners like you."

He fisted the fabric of her dress harder, pulling her closer to his face. "I'm _not_ a prisoner," he said. "And nor are you."

"Of course," she lied. "Prisoners like Jace."

"Yes." He nodded once, sharply, seeming satisfied. "Now, why is Jace still there? He's dead." Jonathan paused and began to look around him wildly, his chest rising and falling deeply. "It's not…me, is it? Jonathon isn't unhappy with me, is he? I haven't – I haven't done anything wrong."

" _You?"_ Isabelle said, incredulous, manifesting beside Clarissa. "What about the others? You selfish bastard." Jonathan desperately tried to not look at her. Clarissa thought that he was cured. "Selfish, sycophantic bastard."

There was a moment when Clary felt the quaking of Jonathan's hands and she thought that he was scared or worried, not because he remembered being there after seeing himself reflected on paper, but because that was his family, his friends, that he saw alongside him, facing their own hell. Now, she felt her stomach boiling, remembering why he could be nothing more or less than Jonathan. That wasn't who he had been created to be.

"Jonathan-" she tried tentatively, sliding away from him.

"No," he said, a bit too loudly than he intended if his widening eyes was anything to go by. "No," he said again, quieter, "answer my question. _Stop_ avoiding my questions."

"I don't…," she said slowly, trying to avoid his eyes, "I don't know. Jonathon just said that it was a joke."

His eyes slid back to where the paper lay on the floor after fluttering off the desk as she was pushed into it. He pressed her further into the desk again, but he didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say, only that he felt sick and knew that he wasn't going to vomit in front of Clarissa.

"A…joke," he repeated, as if he wasn't sure what the word meant.

"You're a joke to him."

Isabelle snorted. "You _are_ ," she agreed.

He shook his head then, hard, as if he was trying to throw her words out of his head. "No," he said, but he knew better. Jonathon had given him his own drawing, of Isabelle's dead body, as a joke. Jonathan was nothing but a joke to him. "I'm not. We're…we're good. Brotherly. He wouldn't leave me in charge if he thought I was a joke." His hot breath was in her face. "Do _you_ think it's funny?"

As a matter of fact, she did, to an extent; but it was her fault that he was there in the first place, and she didn't think that her carelessness was funny at all. She didn't think any of them being there was funny. "No. No, I think it's awful."

"So does Jonathon," he pressed.

She pressed her lips tightly together, as if she could stop the words slipping out, and nodded her head. Isabelle laughed, hard; Jonathan didn't remember her ever being so joyous.

"It's a test," he stated, confirming it with a nod of his head. "Jonathon wanted me to see this."

"What?" This image was for her – or so she had thought. Jonathan seemed to be convinced that it was never meant for her, but for him to come across. "Jonathon gave _me_ this, he wanted _me_ to see it. He told me that if I could find them, I could visit them."

He nodded again, his head ducking close to her stationary one. "Yes – a test, see? For both of us, then." He let his hands release her clothes and fall lamely to his sides. "He wants to see the result."

"The result?"

"Of the test." He jerked his chin towards the picture. "He wants to see if we're gullible enough to check if they're there. If we've understood yet that they're not our real family. Not anymore. That they're going to kill us."

" _Good,"_ Clary said. "Good. So they should."

His eyebrows pulled together. "You don't want to die," he told her. "I know you don't since you showed up at my room, worried about rebels breaking in, and asking about Jonathon. You didn't want to escape - you wanted to be safe from them."

" _You_ don't know me," she said. "You don't know anything." He was sorely right, though.

"I know that this is a lie," he said firmly, reaching down and picking up the paper. He handed it to her – technically _forced_ her to have it. "No one is behind those walls. Of course they're not. I'm – Jace is gone. Jace isn't _there._ It's just an empty cell. Haven't you spent one moment contemplating since you got this, that he might be _tricking_ you? He could've drawn anything – any _one_ – one that paper."

Isabelle was suddenly next to him, and touching his arm. His head snapped towards the contact, eyes wide, before he looked away, forgetting that Clary wasn't supposed to see things like that. "But one of them _is_ really there. You know that. You _know_ that," she said.

He pressed a hand to his temple.

"Take me there," she said suddenly. Quietly. As if he was going to blow at any moment. She pretended to not have seen that strange snap of his head, as if she was reliving that nightmare, but she couldn't shake that it _had_ happened. "Take me there and prove it, Jace. You know where they are."

The "Jace" had just slipped out, but she didn't regret it. It was Jace who would know. It was Jace that was surfacing.

"Jace," he breathed, surprised. It had been a long time since she had last mistaken him as Jace. A long time indeed. It was different when she mentioned the name, as if it wasn't him – and it _wasn't,_ he firmly reminded himself – to when she called _him_ Jace. So, so different.

Then his face hardened and his trembling ceased. Jonathan pulled himself up straighter. "We're not alone," he hissed.

"He's not _here_ ," she protested. "Show me, Jace. Help me. We can _help_ them."

"No," he said sharply. He ground his teeth. "How long ago did you get that drawing?" He asked. He reached to grab her, but quickly pulled away, as if _she_ was the one contaminated with Heavenly Fire this time.

"A week before he left," she said.

He backed away from her, until he stood by the open door, shaking his head and trembling again. He appeared to be sweating, too. Then, suddenly, he began nodding. "You were the last to see Jonathon before he left. _You're_ the one tricking me. With his help." The corners of his lips pulled tightly upwards, as if he wasn't sure whether he should be smiling or feeling smug. He was passing the test. "I will never take you there," he vowed, then repeated it just as emphatically. "I don't want a part in this."

Clary was confused, and she stepped towards him, but he stepped backwards into the doorway. "No, Jonathan. No, this isn't – _Jace._ I want to help. I want to _help_ them."

He grinned, large enough for dimples to show. " _You're_ tricking me," he said, bobbing his head. "You can tell Jonathon that I knew; that I said no; that I _passed."_ He ducked out of the room and flew down the staircase before she could even get close to him.

* * *

For the following few days, Jonathan was sickeningly joyful, still believing that he had passed whatever test Jonathon had set out for him. He'd always give Clary knowing smiles, and had even begun to kiss her face like Jonathon did. There was nothing that she could do to convince him that Jonathon had no part in what she wanted to do, and with him so deliriously happy, it was hard for her to actively hate him.

Even when she had snuck down to the prisons during her free time, and found that he had instated guards. Guards that, apparently, wouldn't even move for the princess.

After several failed attempts of trying to get past the guards – one being an idiotic idea that she should've known was _never_ going to work, involving an attempt to seduce Jonathan into showing her were personal prisoners were _theoretically_ being kept; once he had realised what she was doing, he once again shoved her away from him as if he had been scorched, and staggered out of the room with nonsensical mutterings and a pale face – she had given up and burned the portrait. If Jonathon was egging her on to visit it by claiming that there were innocents being contained in those squalid conditions, but Jonathan was utterly convinced that there was no one there and her brother was tricking her, then how could she decide who was being truthful? Both of their reactions made sense whether there really were people behind those walls or if it was empty.

The rejection from Jonathan was only moderately worse than giving up on finding the personal prisoners. Due to his wired reaction, Clary assumed that Jonathon had made some obscene ruling about touching her romantically, and it infuriated her that he had placed that sort of boundary between them without her finding out about it until now, only because it was exactly what he had told her to do. He _knew_ that Jonathan would react that way, and he still encouraged her to do it.

She bet that he'd hear about it eventually, that Jonathan would tell him and beg for forgiveness, and he'd laugh hard and never feel so smug again in his life. All in all, she didn't know if she was more angry or embarrassed about it.


	20. Collapse

_Somewhere in New York…_

"So," he said, stretching languidly in his chair, "how many more people, is it, that you need to condemn in their own homeland before you give up? I've lost count now."

"As many as it takes to end your existence, boy," he bravely retorted. He was a boy compared to him, after all; a boy and a monster. This, surely, should be an apt reason as to why he was weary about helping Shadowhunters for most of his life.

The child-king laughed, waving away his soldiers that were about to strike him for answering their king without the proper titles or respect. They grudgingly lowered their hands, and Magnus wondered how he had ever gotten these Shadowhunters so well trained before he decided that he'd rather not know. "And what happens when all your friends are in my service or dead? You don't have many left. Only other immortals, now. Will you come fight me yourself? Am I worth many more centuries of living, Warlock? You've lived in peace for this long."

"I won't be living in peace if you continue; I, and everyone else, will be forced into mindless slavery. That's worthless to me, after so many centuries of freedom."

"Right," the king said slowly, smiling devilishly. "You seem to be labouring under the impression that what I'm doing is wrong and evil. Look around you: do they seem to be held down by manacles?"

They did not, but they didn't exactly look to be the epitome of health. Most seemed to be of a nervous disposition and trembled as if they were out in the cold.

Magnus decided not to dignify him with an answer, when he obviously knew what it was going to be.

It didn't stop his smug look, however. He beckoned forward several more of his guards that were hidden in the shadows, ones that Magnus knew held bound prisoners from his family's manor in Idris, heads covered in sacks. Each person underneath them were blindfolded and gagged, which seemed unnecessary, since they obviously would know and understand what was happening and who he was. And, as usual, they were dressed in the clothes that befitted his personal prisoners: loose, beige fabric that was similar to the coarse material of the sacks on their heads, which most likely aimed to disguise the true extent of their mistreatment.

They were made to kneel in front of him.

"Fine," he said, standing from his chair. "I don't know how many times we'll play this game, Bane, but I'll humour you. You have forever, after all, and I have two more generations of Morgensterns – possibly more – to repeat the offer." He moved to the first prisoner, one that was on the far left of Magnus. He procured a ceremonious dagger from his robes. "You stop sending Shadowhunters and Downworlders into Idris, and you get this one." Jonathon pulled the bag off their head, and revealed it to be Lucian Greymark, as usual, bound by silver; though he was almost unrecognisable with his lack of facial hair and newly shaved head. Jonathon looked to Magnus, still seated with gritted teeth as he overlooked Luke, seeing if there was any new injuries or damages that had been inflicted upon him since the last time (there was, of course there was), and progressed to the next body.

"You rally support for _me_ from these rebels – see that I have it to make the world better for all, and bring the recognition that we deserve from Mundanes - and you can keep my mother." He pulled the sack from her head. Her red hair, matted and thin fell just to her shoulders, shorter than it was when he had previously seen her. There was a scar on her right cheek, thick and silvery, that was partially covered by her blindfold; Magnus wondered how she had acquired it. No one he had ever seen was ever harmed or scarred on their face. "Do both tasks, and you'll be able to keep them together. In time, perhaps I and my dear, sweet sister will have a half-sibling."

"And you'd rip that poor child from your mother's breast to keep as your own sibling."

"The brat could suckle away at her breast until the day she perishes, for all I care. It will be a Fairchild, and I haven't the slightest interest in them." He fingered his knife ponderously. "But maybe I'd pass it to its aunt, Amatis – you remember Amatis? We _all_ remember Amatis - and turn him into my own soldier. Maybe I'd collect him for my own child."

"Just finish your deals, Jonathon. I don't have time to listen to your sick plans."

The smile finally slipped from his face and it became shadowed. "I didn't call this meeting this time, Warlock. If you'd stop being so foolish, you would've been out of here before the sun rose." He let his knife caress the neck of his third prisoner, holding his head with a firm hand to prevent him from jerking and causing an unplanned injury. He cooed to him with threatening words, tugging the bag off his head and revealing his cropped black hair. "You interrupt me or treat me with a lack of respect again, and I'll take away another prisoner without hearing your offers or decision. I'll take my mother and step-father home, and you can keep your boyfriend's body. My gift to you." He ran the tip of his knife along his prisoner's throat, agonisingly slow, but other than a whimper and shiver, the prisoner didn't react. Jonathon bared his teeth in a grin. "But we don't need to resort to threats now, do we? We're partners, you and I."

"No," he said, the word low and forced. Jonathon quirked an eyebrow, sliding the knife back down to his jugular. "Your Majesty."

"Good, so I'll continue." He removed his knife from the boy's neck and stood from his crouch. "You get your boyfriend back – _alive -_ if you move into Idris and work both with and _for_ me. This, obviously, means that your boyfriend becomes a member of my court, is safe and protected and rewarded most generously. You'll both also get to see my dear little brother and sister and see that they're also safe and protected, contrary to what you and your rebels seem to think." Jonathon paced the row on prisoners once more and then sunk back into his chair. "So. Did you call me here to waste time or have you decided to turn your life's work to saving people?"

* * *

_Days later in Idris…_

The heel of his hand struck at his face, breaking his jaw. Jonathan whimpered, but didn't cry out or move his hands to touch it or protect himself; he stayed knelt on the steps of the dais that led up to his brother's throne, even as the back of Jonathon's hand made contact with his cheek with such energy that his ring cut into his cheek and would have knocked anyone else down. It did, however, cause his crown to topple and tears to spring to his eyes against his will.

He was angry, as he had predicted, but Jonathan had never experienced him as angry as this before. It was disconcerting.

"Where," he growled through gritted teeth, pulling him forward by his robes, "is she, you utter _fool?_

"I don't know," he whispered again, his voice catching and breaking.

It was as if Jonathon didn't think that he had _tried_ to find out where she had gone for days since she vanished. He knew this'd happen. Jonathan was almost deliriously sure that she had planned to disappear because she also knew that this'd happen, and my, how she must enjoy the knowledge, the vengeance for not allowing her into the prisons. Didn't she figure out that that was one of Jonathon's plans?

He hated her. She was trying undermine any relationship that he had with their brother.

Jonathon struck him again, causing him to choke on a sob as his jaw was further hurt. "Where is she hiding?" He demanded once again, as though if he continually changed the question bit by bit he would be able to answer it as he had not done when he was asked previously.

"She's not hiding. I don't know where she is."

His hands moved to wrap around his neck, fingernails biting into and breaking his skin. His teeth were bared so much and so close to his face that he was nervous that he was going to be bitten by his carnivorous fangs; he had become like one of his favourite demonic hounds. "If you won't tell me where she is, _Jace,_ perhaps you'll divulge what exactly happened that led to her disappearance. And if you dare tell me that you are clueless to that as well, you may as well leave for the dungeons now."

_What happened?_ That question was simple enough, easy enough for him to explain to Jonathon. It was something that he could answer with more than just the three recurring words, but he was afraid of his reaction to the tale. Would he think him weak? Bothersome? A failure? Useless, un-brotherly, Jace.

Well, Jonathon already thought all those things about him without needing his tale. Therefore, it couldn't get any worse for him by telling it – and perhaps he could recount it in such a way that it made it seem as if it weren't his fault, but rather their sister's. If he weaved it just right, it wouldn't be difficult for Jonathon to come to terms with it, believe it, and even be equally angry with her.

This was her test as well, and she'd clearly failed.

Jonathan swallowed, fighting back the pain that came from trying to talk with a broken jaw. He was sure that some of his words were going to be slurred and half-formed, but as long as he finished and managed to get Jonathon to understand him, it didn't matter if he sounded like a child. "She wanted to visit Ruman last week in the evening," he mumbled.

If anything, he became more furious. The pressure increased on his windpipe. "Last _week?_ My little sister has been missing for a _week_ and you, you complete _imbecile_ , haven't found her?"

Jonathan nodded his head weakly, and Jonathon refrained from hitting him again. "I told her – I told her that it was curfew, but she wouldn't – she wouldn't listen to me…"

* * *

_Last week in Idris..._

Clary was wrapped in so many fur pelts that she looked almost child-like and shorter than normal. Her red hair was wild, escaping through any gap in her headwear that Jonathan had made her wear, and her freckled face was paler and tinged red, probably from the heat.

"Jonathan," she said. "We haven't checked on the wyverns in _weeks._ Can they even fare in the winter? What if they left the parameters and some rebels managed to hurt them?"

His jaw was set and hard. "They were created in Hell," he said. "They have their own caves, are capable of producing fire and hunting. They're much better equipped to survive than you believe." He gripped her shoulders and frog-marched her away from the manor's doors. "It's past Jonathon's curfew; you're not to go outside even _if_ they were dying."

She ducked under his arms and strode back to the doors. "Well, he's not here to enforce it," she said. "And I would've gone earlier, before curfew, but you had me in drills all day – and when I _wasn't_ in drills, you were dragging me to border patrols."

Contrary to what she said, Clary rather loved border patrols; she loved to be with other people (even if they were as mindless as Jonathan), she loved to know where rebels were most frequently found and how big their land was becoming. It all seemed like useful information to pass on to her fellow rebels when she finally managed to escape.

He blocked her path with his body, stepping in front of her every time she tried to go around him. She could fight him, take him down if it became necessary, but she'd rather it didn't come to that; she still wasn't quite sure if she'd beat him. "Sed lex dura lex," he reminded her, looking down at her with hard eyes. "We're not going anywhere."

"We?" She shouldered him out the way. "I'm capable of riding down there myself. I know where it is, how to get there and pass the parameters. I don't need you standing behind me, sulking. Besides, you're the only one enforcing the law right now." He was in front of her again, blocking her, and her fingers began to itch with the need to attack him. "If you don't come out with me, then you won't have broken the law, and you'll still be his favourite. Honestly, Jonathan. Just let me _go."_

"No." He crossed his arms, and considered Jonathan's instructions. It was true that he could, for now, bend the laws to his will, being the acting sovereign, and if Jonathon heard that she had broken curfew, he wouldn't be in any trouble so long as he stated the reason - and Jonathon so loved to please his sister; it seemed like a good enough excuse.

But he was not allowed, under any circumstance, to leave his sister unattended – and she was eventually going to venture outside with or without him, and once she acquired a horse, it would be troublesome to find her again.

"You're weak from training. There's monsters out there, Clarissa; you wouldn't last five minutes alone."

Even Jonathan didn't know what things awaited them outside at night; he only knew what Jonathon had warned him about – and even that didn't come with any instructions on how to fight them. He ground his teeth together; the faster they left, the sooner they would be back home, and hopefully they wouldn't run into any trouble.

She huffed and considered where it would be most effective to strike him. Jonathan had a forgetfulness to protect his left side; so it would be a kick to the left-side of his ribs, hopefully winding him, and perhaps she could knock his feet out from under him. Though, that would be lucky; she'd need a lot of force to unbalance him. Instead, maybe she'd have better luck striking him in the gut so that he doubled over, and then knocked him unconscious while she had fleeting access to his head.

Or perhaps she could stun him long enough to outrun him. She was small and fast.

Her fingers were curled into a fist, ready to hurt Jonathan, when he stepped towards her yet again, but his outstretched arm was not to attack her or defend himself; instead, he pulled his coat down from the hook. She relaxed, pleased that she was getting her way.

"We go, you see that Ruman is perfectly healthy, and we come straight back."

* * *

Jonathan was wrong. The sun set quicker than he had anticipated, quicker than usual, and darkness was crawling in through the trees.

Perhaps he could blame it on Ruman's choice of cave, so high up in the mountain that it took longer than Jonathan was happy with to reach; perhaps he could blame it on the horses, tired from their patrols; perhaps he could blame the snow, for making them take their horses slowly – or Clarissa altogether. Maybe it was his own fault, for naively thinking that they could've made it back before the sun completely melted into the hills and mountains.

Nevertheless, Jonathan feared that no matter whether they changed all the variables, the darkness would've come quickly for them anyway.

He wasn't afraid of the dark – not by a long shot, he couldn't afford to have that sort of weakness around Valentine, and now Jonathon – but there was something eerie and unusual about this darkness. He rode close to his sister, who was contentedly riding their brother's stallion at a trot due to his urging, his fingers twitching on the reins every time he heard a noise – which was awfully rare.

"Come on," he muttered, slapping the rump of Clarissa's horse. It sped up only a fraction. "Can't you go any faster? You're supposed to be more durable."

"Relax, Jonathan," Clarissa said breezily. "We're fine; we're almost back home. We'll be passing the Downworlders' territory soon. Jonathon may never know."

Jonathan in fact could not relax; he was a soldier, not a carefree princess – and he would not stop being on edge until he put Clarissa back inside her room and increased the guards while he patrolled the whole manor. "There's a reason we're not supposed to be here, sister," he said to her, casting furtive glances all around them. Other than an owl landing on a nearby branch, there seemed to be nothing else in the forest. "I don't think Jonathon's the sort to tell ghost stories for the hell of it."

She snorted and looked at him smugly, begging him to reconsider what he had just said. Jonathon was _exactly_ the sort to lie to them to create fear and then wallow in it.

They rode in silence for several hundred more metres, and multiple times Jonathan changed their course in an attempt to evade whatever might be following them (so far, the only thing that seemed to be following them were a couple of owls – which was suspicious enough for Jonathan; as far as he knew, owls were solitary creatures) or to gain more cover amongst the trees instead of being on the open path. Yet, doing so meant that they took even longer to travel, having to weave the horses through the trees at a reasonably fast pace in the snow and dark, and they regularly lost track of where their manor was in relation to where they were; they didn't even know whether they were still within Jonathon's territory sometimes. Sure, they'd make it back home fine if they always kept Lake Lyn on their left, but they were so deep in Brocelind Forest that they didn't even know in what direction it laid; Jonathan was sure that they were still within their lands and that Lake Lyn was towards west, but Clarissa wasn't so sure. She kept trying to retrace their steps, and make them even more confused.

"This is why we don't go out at night," he said, steering his warhorse west through a line of trees. He had it in himself to find Lake Lyn and then work it out from there; he wouldn't admit that he had made a mistake. "We don't even have a stele."

Clarissa followed him. " _You're_ the one who got us lost!" She shrilled. "We should've just continued straight on the path like we were doing."

"You don't know what's out there, Little Angel Girl," he said, changing their direction yet again. "If only you could've waited until morning to check on your precious Ruman. Jonathon is going to hear about this."

"If there was anything following us, we would've seen it! They would've _attacked_ us by now, Jonathan. We'd hear them in the snow; the horses would be uneasy."

"These horses never get uneasy." He stilled his horse and surveyed the area, though that was fruitless; there was absolutely nothing there other than more woodland and darkness. Clarissa's hand brushed his arm, and he was so paranoid that he almost threw her off her horse; instead, he looked to where she was pointing, breathing heavily from the sudden panic that had entered his bloodstream

.

* * *

_Currently in Idris..._

Still in Jonathon's grasp, and seemingly unsuccessful in turning him against their sister, Jonathan began to cry as he continued the tale. "There was nothing I could do," he sobbed. "She just wouldn't _listen._ And you said – you said that I couldn''t…"

* * *

_A week ago in Idris..._

There, to the left of them, was a glade that Jonathan had already looked over during his survey. It wasn't anything special, just a small clearing in the woods – but within it was a large wolf, larger than any werewolf he had ever seen before. It didn't do anything, just merely watched them with its yellowish eyes that were like beacons in the dark. If he was waiting for their journey turn from bad to worse, he thought, this would be why; Jonathan began to back his horse up slowly, holding on to Jonathon's horse's reins, but Clarissa had already slid off her horse and was creeping towards the beast of an animal.

He had never seen a real wolf out in the wild, having lived in New York for the better half of his life, and now Idris once again – but Jonathan didn't think that there was anything Mundane about the creature that his sister was rapidly approaching. There had never been a wolf in Idris for as long as it had lived - but that only posed the haunting question of what it _really_ was. He didn't know, and as such, he sure as hell didn't want Clary getting any closer to it. He quickly slid out of his own saddle and moved after her, trying to grab the back of her furs, but she shifted out of his desperate grab and continued on after giving him an annoyed glance. "You're going to scare it away," she said, but Jonathan couldn't find it in himself to care.

"You're going to get hurt," he warned. Jonathan himself didn't think that he would be able to get away from that creature so easily and unscathed if it decided that either of them was its enemy, no matter how quietly and still it was in this moment. The thing undoubtedly reached his waist on all fours, and most likely was his height or taller on its hind legs; it looked to be made of pure muscle, and had a sort of intelligence about itself. "What in Raziel's name do you think you're doing?"

"Jonathan, please." She sounded exasperated. "It's not going to hurt either of us."

But if it did – and Jonathan sorely hoped that it was Clarissa that was going to be right this time – he would be the one to blame, and he didn't even know where he would begin to explain to their brother why their sister was dead or why they were both gravely injured. "Clarissa," Jonathan hissed. "You get away from that thing."

She still didn't listen. She seemed to find something so enchanting about the chartreuse of the wolf's eyes, big and bold and fathoming. It drew her ever closer, creeping slowly through the trees to reach its frozen body. She didn't want it to run off before she could get closer, get a better look at it.

"Get back here right now, Clarissa," he quietly snarled once more, not moving from his rigid posture. There was an undertone of fear in his voice as he called for her to get back; she was going too far and he didn't know how to stop her or protect the both of them adequately against this – this _thing_. He didn't want to startle the wolf either; this wasn't one of their comrades. If she could just return to him, they could leave without the shedding of blood...

Jonathan's hands itched at his sides. He _had_ to protect her, but startling that mysterious creature into action would prevent him from doing anything of the sort; it'd be so much easier if his sister listened to him.

The wolf stood from its low crouch very slowly, as slow as Clarissa was moving towards it. Its auburn coat rippled from the predicted cords of muscle underneath, and darkened further as more clouds covered the full moon. Until now, he had barely noticed that it had been a full moon tonight, and cursed their chances; if this was any sort of wolf – Mundane, werewolf (both which were unlikely) or other – it'd be even more aggressive than usual.

Not once did this animal break eye contact with Clarissa as she advanced on it. _Had they even broken eye contact since she had first seen it?_ Jonathan questioned, creeping after her. _Of course she had. She'd looked at me._

Jonathan knew each of the werewolf packs and their members inside and out, and knew the exact character and appearance of each one in their wolf form. There wasn't a single werewolf dedicated to Jonathon's cause that was as red as this one was, without markings or a _human_ intelligence that lurked beneath its form.

"Clarissa," he said, lowly. "Don't you dare touch it." He stepped forward to drag her back to the manor, but the wolf's eyes suddenly shifted to him, and it bared its long fangs, growling low in its throat as its own warning to him. It lifted its large paw and took one threatening step forwards, ears lying flat against its head and its hackles raised.

Jonathan bared his own teeth in return, and considered moving forward again. He didn't. He saw that his sister was still approaching the wild thing, more slowly now that it had become aggressive towards him, and took a step backwards to his original position. As soon as he moved back, it resumed observing his sister, in an eerie peace, once again. An eagle perched on a nearby tree, and Jonathan would forever remember thinking that that was odd, that eagles weren't nocturnal birds at all; but owls hooted nearby and he cursed himself for getting wrapped up in an obscene paranoia about birds when there was a monstrous wolf in front of them, pleasantly watching Clarissa.

It wanted her. Specifically her. _Why_?

"Clary," he whispered, breathless. He swallowed hard. "Clary, did you hear me? Come back here. Please."

He hadn't used her name as delicately as he had just done in months - before she had ever entered Jonathon's palace - but she still took no notice of what he was saying to her. He doubted that he was ever going to say her name that emotively again.

"It's wounded, Jonathan," she replied softly, still advancing. "I have to help it."

She was right; the same paw that it had previously put all its weight onto when intimidating him was now raised in the air, and it swayed, unfamiliar with standing on three legs. Its fur had been coated in blood, tingeing its auburn fur with something far redder; Jonathan couldn't see the wound, but Clarissa must - or he had assumed. It whimpered pathetically, feigning its injury.

Jonathan knew that he wasn't mentally sound in some aspects, but he was still the leader of Jonathon's army and part of his Royal Guard - he _knew_ that that wound had not been there when they first stumbled across it. The winds picked up around them, freezing Jonathan where he stood and rustling the leaves on the trees that surrounded them. Shadows grew around them, and more eyes appeared in the dark; Jonathan was harshly reminded that wolves were pack creatures. He _knew_ that they were not supposed to be outside this late for good reason, but Clarissa couldn't see it. She only saw what that creature wanted her to see.

Jonathan frantically shook his head despite her not looking at it. All words froze in his throat, but he carefully unsheathed two daggers from his baldric. He didn't even know if they would work against this monstrosity, but he gripped them tightly in his hands. "Clary," he pleaded once more. "Clary, walk back to me now, very slowly. Don't turn your back on it." She was too far away from him now for him to lunge and pull her away before the beast sunk its teeth into her skin. If she died, it was her fault.

"I have to help it," she repeated.

Finally, she came close enough to it to stretch her hand out to touch its muzzle. The clouds had moved from in front of the moon, and its light illuminated the glade that they had found themselves in, turning everything silvery. The forest had become still, as if everything mattered on the contact of her hand on its muzzle. The wolf seemed to glimmer in the moonlight. Ethereal, almost.

Slowly, Jonathan lifted his first dagger, finely crafted from obsidian and inlaid with _adamas,_ which gave the filigree a golden sheen, and prepared to throw it straight into the wolf's awaiting maw. He pictured the silver string that tethered their two lives together, as Jonathon had taught him, and chose an angle that would avoid harming Clarissa's outstretched hand. With a simple flick of his wrist, it would bury itself in its gullet.

* * *

_Present time in Idris..._

"Oh, Jace," Jonathon snarled, bringing their faces closer. " _Foolish_ Jace, _weak_ Jace, _naïve_ Jace. The end of this abysmal story of yours better not end with the death of my sister."

Jonathan cried harder, shaking his head as much as he could while being in a suffocating hold. "It doesn't," he promised. "She's not dead, Your Majesty. She's not dead."

Jonathon struck his face again; one of his eyes was beginning to completely swell shut. "Not _yet,"_ he seethed. "Your pathetic story isn't over; she hasn't been found yet."

* * *

_A week ago in Idris..._

As soon as it left his hand, the dead forest burst into life.

The auburn wolf lunged for Clarissa, its mouth enclosing around her wrist and dragging her down to kiss the floor. His dagger missed wide of the mark, flying over the beast and Clarissa, as they pressed flat to the earth. Jonathan moved to throw his other whilst he still could, whilst Clary was merely pinned to the ground and not dead and mutilated, but a heavy object bowled into his back as another maw locked around his own wrist before Jonathan had an opportunity to aim and release. The other wolf crunched down on his hand hard enough that Jonathan cried out and released his dagger in pain, confused and disorientated from being winded and ambushed. Its eyes glinted at his distressed noise, and masticated harder.

More wolves appeared, five, ten, fifteen all together and all of the same unusualness as the first that had entranced Clarissa. Each split themselves between him and his sister, who seemed to have broken free of her enchantment and was crying for Jonathan's help, not knowing that he was in the same position as her. They ripped at his and her hunting gear, trying to find the flesh underneath that they could taste and tear easily, and scattered any weapons that they found. One ran back to wherever they had come from with his crown; Clarissa had never taken hers with her.

Dark laughter filled the forest, terrifying against the grunts and snarls of the wolves all around them, but he thought for one ridiculous moment that it might've been Jonathon coming to save them.

It most definitely was not.

She began screaming; she screamed his name and Jonathon's; she screamed for Ruman, who was unlikely to come for her; she screamed for the other inhabitants of the forest to help her, the ones that belonged to Jonathon, and she screamed from the pain and fear. Jonathan lifted his head from where it had been forced into the ground to look for where she was, the moonlight quickly fading away as another cloud blocked it, but she wasn't where she had been last. His eyes roved the dell, looking for any movement or of the fiery red hair that belonged to no other.

Heading into deeper forest was a band of men that looked to be fae, ones that he had never seen before or come across in all his years of training. The closest thing that he thought that they could've been was those that were a part of the Wild Hunt, but even then they didn't fit the description. These were malevolent faeries, but not part of the Unseelie Court, as far as he knew. They were independent, free-roamers - and somehow, they had infiltrated Jonathon's land without detection.

The one that must've been The Auburn Wolf, had thrown Clary over his shoulders, bloody and torn, similar to how Jonathan was, and was being accompanied by at least ten of his fae associates; they were whooping and laughing as they disappeared with her.

"Jonathan!" She cried, kicking and twisting in his titanium grasp. "Jonathan, help _me!_ Where are you?"

It was too late to call out to her. She was already gone. Her screams still echoed in the forest.

The eagle that had been a spectator to the entire event took off in the same direction as his sister's kidnappers. The wolves that were still left continued to tear his limbs from his body and rip chunks from his legs for a moment more, before they too transformed back into their fae bodies; his blood, tinted gold by Angel's ichor, stained their mouths and hands.

Their skin wasn't of a coloured sheen like those that were under the rule of the Seelie Queen - or of half-beast, half faerie nature of most of those under the Unseelie Court - but something else entirely; it glowed in the moonlight, but was dull in the dark, and almost had a metallic quality about it. They were _all_ of the same coppery colour, and all roughly the same height as himself or Jonathon. All of them, except a few, wore leather armour across shirtless torsos and weapons strapped to their body's in baldrics similar to his own; they were bare-footed, and swiftly moved across the forest's floor, as if knowing its layout intimately. Unlike regular fae, they lacked the butterfly wings - but, similarly, they possessed the same pointed canines as pixies and elves, and ears much like pucas. He hadn't had the chance to look at their eyes, but he assumed that they were the same colour of their wolf's; like the lycanthropes, their hair colour also matched the shade of their wolf hides.

Jonathon was _not_ going to be happy. With him or anyone.

They collected around him, standing in his line of sight, and grinned their demonic grins, canines dripping blood. "You're King Jonathon?" One of them asked in a hiss; he had raven hair that fell to his shoulders, and stood further forward than others. They leaned closer towards him in anticipation and excitement; their eyes glittered, the colour of gemstones.

Jonathan wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, though he was sure all it did was smudge it. With more strength that he thought that he possessed, he sat up from the floor without crying out in pain or wincing much. He spat at their feet. "Who are you?" He demanded, albeit weakly. "Where have you taken the princess?"

It was unlikely that they were going to give him a good answer, seeing as they were still faeries, but at least they couldn't lie.

The faerie elected to ignore Jonathan's questions. "We heard that the King is of the Great Mother." It licked the blood from around its mouth, and the others followed suit. "But you're from the Angels."

Jonathan grit his teeth. "King Jonathon isn't here," he told them. "He's gone." He suddenly became infused with a tremendous amount of rage. "But when he comes back, he's going to find every single one of you and-"

Another, a female this time, with hair of a pale lilac colour, broke her position in the rank to tip-toe over to where he sat. Her smile was positively feline and seductive, but an evil lurked beneath her skin. They had stolen his sister. The faerie ran a sharpened fingernail along his jaw, dragging it to his Adam's apple and straddled his lap; Jonathan tried not to groan or flinch. Her lilac breasts were unabashedly displayed, her nipples a more – darker - purple colour, and were pressed against his chest as she leaned into him, curling her tongue along his ear. It had been a long time since he was with a woman, but that was a weakness.

"King Jonathon is never going to find us," she purred. "He might find bits and pieces of his sister, but not us. How does one go about finding shadows? That's all we are, Young Angel. Little Angel."

Jonathan tried to buck her off - or throw her off - but his lower body and arms were leaden. He was too injured and tired, completely sapped of energy, to engage in any sort of combat or defend himself against them. "Don't you dare hurt my sister," he growled.

She laughed; it held such a musical quality compared to her comrades'. Leaning forward, she licked a trail of blood from his face, causing Jonathan to shudder. "You're not a Morgenstern," she stated, recoiling from him. "Herondale."

Jonathan had no idea how they managed to know that from the taste of his blood. It was unlikely that they had ever tasted a Herondale before.

Several faeries removed their weapons and pointed them at him: swords, daggers, arrows - and even one crafted spear. "What's the _last_ Herondale doing with the Morgensterns?" The first faerie asked curiously.

"Don't you touch a hair on my sister's head," he repeated.

Every faerie took a step away from him, and the faerie that was still on his lap was dragged away by another. They hissed in unison at the corruption, at him. "Justice must be enacted," a blue-haired faerie told Jonathan. He scoffed.

"If King Jonathon can find us," a younger-looking faerie shrieked, "then King Jonathon can stop your sister from being hurt."

As if that was their cue to leave, they all shrieked in laughter, knowing that with as little information as Jonathan had they were never going to be found by King Jonathon, and ran into the woods, all in different directions so that Jonathan couldn't follow them or have a definite lead.

He could hear their exuberance long into the night.

* * *

Jonathan laid on the ground where he was left, the horses whinnying in the background of the forest, and cried, ignorant of his injuries. He laid there for a few hours, until the sun rose again and he knew where he was going once more, sobbing and bleeding out into the forest floor and praying to the Angels, whom he no longer believed in, that he retrieved Clarissa before she was tortured or killed – that she was back at their manor, ready for Jonathon's return, before he noticed that she was missing.

Which would be roughly 10 seconds after he passed through the front doors.

Jonathan mounted his horse and road it back onto the open road, the path that they _should've_ taken last night, then drove both horses into the ground, riding hard until they were outside the stables. He dismounted, called together his most prized soldiers, and sent them out in groups to try glean information on these new faeries; only with his most _trusted_ soldiers did he pass the information of their princess's kidnap and led them on their own, independent search party, being ruthless on any rebel that accidentally came into their path. They were lucky to be merely killed after desperate pleading that they had no knowledge on whatever they were looking for.

No one seemed to have any knowledge on what they were looking for. It was as if they had never existed.

* * *

_Now..._

Jonathon's lip curled, his hand tightening even more on his windpipe – and Jonathan once more thought that this was it, that this was how he was going to die – and then he threw Jonathan's body away from him, down the short flight of steps up to the dais. Jonathan laid there in a crumpled, sobbing state, until multiple pairs of hands were underneath his armpits and dragging him away, presumably and most likely back to the dungeons, where he'd spend his days as Jace, until he was redeemed once more; all the while he was dragged against the tiles, Jonathon was calling together his army – most of whom were Endarkened soldiers from the days when he had actively used the Infernal Cup – and preparing to go out into Idris and rampage every corner of it, whether it was occupied by them or not, until Clarissa's prison was found.

It was much more effective than whatever he was doing, Jonathan thought sadly, as he disappeared from the throne room altogether.


End file.
